


Loki's Little Mischief

by the_bonny_wordsmith



Category: Norse Mythology, Thor (Movies)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Mythology, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Healing, Loki Feels, Marvel Norse Mythology, Norse Myths & Legends, Red String of Fate, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-06
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2017-12-22 14:48:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 47
Words: 191,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/914472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_bonny_wordsmith/pseuds/the_bonny_wordsmith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A lost piece of Norse Mythology from the Golden Age of Asgard, with an angsty pre-"Thor" Marvel Cinematic Universe Loki on the brink of an internal disintegration as he struggles with his lack of self-worth, and unfulfilled desire for his father's approval. <br/>Conflicted and spiralling deeper into the darkness swallowing him up, Loki begins a journey that he does not understand and cannot complete alone. Meanwhile, a nymph called Káta, still relatively new to Asgard, has to battle her prejudices, and struggles to help the most unconventional God she will ever meet.<br/>But what begins as superficial self-healing for Loki becomes a sudden and frighteningly deep excursion into uncovering his wounded psyche, and Káta is no ordinary nymph...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Five Kisses](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/25757) by CountessCasualty. 

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enthusiasts and experts in Norse Mythology and Marvel's Cinematic Universe concerning Loki Laufeyson - there are tales in the mythology untold...until now.

_There is an untold tale in Norse mythology of the unknown romance of Loki  the God of Mischief. It is a common misconception that Loki desired and married a nymph that Odin made a Goddess, named Sigyn, and that he later attempted to leave her, although she remained loyal to him until the end, and attempted to relieve his suffering from the poison of the snake the Goddess Skaði set over him before Ragnarök as he lay bound by their son Narfi's guts to three snaptun stones._  
 _Only two pieces of this information are correct. That Loki loved a nymph, and that another nymph by the name of Sigyn was involved, although whether she is real or not is contested._  
 _It was a love that belonged to myths and legends, and yet never made it to any of the history books. A love that changed both of their lives forever more. A love whose strength bound them together until beyond the veil, and transcended all lives. A love Loki never knew himself to be capable of. A love with a nymph called Káta._

_There are two schools of thought to this story; two separate tales that tell the fate of Loki and his lover._

_One is that Loki fell in love with, and wooed the nymph Káta, and that she in turn fell in love with him. With the aid of the Goddess Lofn they persuaded Odin to marry them. However, the Gods were not pleased with this outcome, for in his quest to win over Káta's heart, Loki showed himself to be of a more steadfast and honourable nature than his role as the God of Mischief allowed. So the two were united on the condition that the mortals of Midgard knew nothing of the marriage, for the Gods required Loki's image as a dishonourable trickster to remain intact for the Midgardians to believe in, and rather the fabrication of Sigyn was related to them. To this Loki and Káta acquiesced. Loki in particular was pleased with the outcome for it gave him some little leverage over the other Gods and Goddesses in other matters untold here, and the two were married to their great and everlasting happiness._

_The other tale is that while Loki truly loved and was successful in his pursuit of the nymph Káta, their love was kept secret from the other Gods and Goddesses, save Var and Lofn. However, unbeknownst to anyone but Odin and Frigg, Loki had been arranged to marry the nymph Sigyn in an attempt to calm his antics. When the lovers discovered this they bound themselves to each other with oaths that united their spirits, though they could never be together in life. Káta insisted that Loki fulfil his duty to Sigyn in marrying her and upholding his word, despite the fact that it had been Odin and Frigg that had pledged him on his unwitting behalf. Thus, Loki married Sigyn, and did his duty by her, although his heart was forever in Káta's keeping, and hers in his. Following the marriage, Káta is said to have changed her name to Eilíf, meaning 'always alone in life', and became the spirit of a well. It is said by some that when Loki heard of this he would spend hours gazing into the water and would see Káta's reflection smiling back at him._

_This is the first tale._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I expect a little explaining is probably going to be helpful at this point?
> 
> First of all, these are a pair of supposedly true (but actually entirely fictitious) tales that have been "left out" of Norse Mythology.  
> Secondly, I am blending a mixture of Marvel's take on Norse Mythology (the appearances of Loki and Thor, particularly Loki's colours, as well as the idea that Loki was adopted, and the fact that he is a frost giant) with actual Norse Mythology (i.e. the Gods and Goddesses, place names, item names, the Nine Worlds etc). Of course, certain things will be of my own creation (particularly OCs, some architecture/buildings, and a little bit of geography).  
> Thirdly, I'm afraid a little bit of Greek Mythology is going to bleed into my stories in some places, largely because I have a more extensive background in Greek (and Roman) Mythology (i.e. the use of nymphs and dryads, and also in the way I have perceived clothing and architecture) - so, sorry to any Mythological purists. The idea of nymphs was actually stuck in my head by Wikipedia so I have no idea whether that is an genuine crossing over of Mythologies, or whether it was an accident on the part of the person who wrote the information.
> 
> A couple of things to note: at the time that I began this, I hadn't seen 'Thor', so how I perceived Asgard in the chapters that follow was just the way it appeared in my head, as well as what people look like and how they're dressed. What I _had_ gathered via screencaps of 'Thor' was that Loki is messed up and Thor is an arse before he comes to Earth and Odin sucks at parenting.
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoy it :)
> 
> Also, if you like this story, or any of my other ones, and you want access to sneak previews on chapters that I'm working on, Like my Facebook page, or Follow my Twitter :)  
> https://www.facebook.com/josephinetomkinsauthor  
> https://twitter.com/jtomkinsauthor


	2. Troubled and Troublesome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frigg finds her morning duties as a Goddess to the mortals of Midgard interrupted by the appearance of her sons Thor and Loki, the latter of which is charged with acts of destruction and mischief by the former...which of course he denies.

Frigg sat in one of her morning chambers within her hall, Fensalir, in Valhalla. It was only late morning and the weather was as golden as she could wish for. The entire room was glowing and pleasantly warm. Great shafts of sunlight came in through the large arched windows, and were reflected off and against the intricate and elaborate gold gilt designs carved into the wood and stone walls and pillars of the room. Frigg herself appeared on fire. The sunlight caught the gleaming gold embroidery that scattered her usual simple flowing white dress, and the ruby encrusted gold necklace and belt she wore flashed like a mountain lake on a summer’s day. Her customary purple cloak, attached at the shoulders with a pair of delicately wrought silver brooches, was draped elegantly over her chair, pooling luxuriantly at her feet.

The high-backed chair she sat on was one of her simpler ones, being as it was only solid oak and elaborately carved, the seat and arms draped with furs. About her on stools sat her three closest attendants; Hlín, Fulla, and Gná.

“Gná; find the musicians – I find myself desirous of a pretty melody.” Frigg bade a red-headed goddess whose dress hems bore embroidered winged horses; cleverly constructed representations of her partner and steed Hófvarpnir. Obediently Gná stood and left, returning with a quintet bearing a flute, a set of panpipes, a small harp and a pair of fiddles. Gná made to close the great double doors, but Frigg raised a hand, the gesture arresting her movement before she had moved two paces. “Leave them open; they shall be disturbed shortly in any case.” Gná bobbed her head and resumed her seat, not questioning her mistress’s foresight.

As the musicians struck up a lilting background humming, Frigg took up her jewel inlaid magical distaff, spinning the threads of fate from it. “Do you feel a call, my lady?” Enquired Fulla, a goddess whose dark bouncy curls were captured in a golden snood, preparing the spindle of the distaff for her mistress’s use, nodding to Gná, who moved about the room, laying out great loops and swirls of the countless golden threads, drawing them from the disproportionately small carved ash eski that sat by her mistress’s feet. Frigg nodded.

“A Midgardian woman; praying for help in her labour,” she replied. She turned and gestured with a serene hand. “Hlín go and sit with her.” The goddess she had spoken to, with brooches shaped like shields, nodded as she stood, and with a distinct tilt of her head skywards, was gone, leaving behind her only the quickly fading imprint of the colours of the Bifröst. For a moment there was silence, save for the continued gentle thrumming of the musicians as Frigg’s slim fingers deftly worked the distaff and picked delicately between the flowing mass of threads which were the fates – past, present, and future – of all persons living. Eventually a new thread wove itself into the mass, glowing white until it was fully formed, after which it faded back to a bright and pure gold, falling down to join its fellows – most of which were varying shades of gold and woven with other colours – and Frigg subsided with a sigh and a smile. Hlín reappeared moments later in another shimmer of Bifröst particles, and resumed her seat.

“An easy and successful first birth, my lady,” Hlín reported, “I was with her only seven hours. She offers up her thanks for your aid.” Frigg smiled graciously, her gentle blue eyes kind and twinkling.

She had not been back at her work for ten minutes before the sound of footsteps echoing down the corridor into which the room opened came to their ears. Frigg did not look up, however, continuing to work and pick at the threads of destiny, though her attendants glanced up at the noise.

Two young gods, one enormous and powerfully muscular with a mane of blonde hair and fire in his blue eyes, and the other slim and tall with slicked shoulder-length raven hair and an impish twinkle in his green eyes, strode in at the open doors. They halted before Frigg and her handmaidens, briefly bowing their heads and crossing their chests with their right arms, their open palms resting over their hearts in a gesture of fealty and respect.

“What have you done this time?” Frigg asked, not even glancing up from her work as her sons’ hands fell back to their sides. The two young gods stood before their mother, inured to her foresight; Thor full of fury and hurt pride, and Loki exuding an air of innocent blamelessness. Of the attendants only Hlín sat up and paid attention to the conversation that was about to ensue in case she was to be called upon, whilst Fulla continued to see to the distaff and spindle, her ears open, and Gná straightened the winged and delicately fashioned brass band about her forehead that restrained her unruly fiery locks, batting her lashes at Thor, barely registering the presence of his brother.

It was a common opinion amongst the female members of Asgard that, aside from his brother Baldr, Thor was the most desirable of the Gods – strong, handsome, highly favoured by his father Odin, and foremost in strength and ability – _and_ he had the tempting addition of being as yet without a wife (an attribute that Baldr was without, but did little to stifle the more determined advances). Thor’s eyes lingered on his mother’s flirting attendant until a severe cough from Frigg put an abrupt and abashed end to Gná’s coquetry.

Loki rolled his eyes.

This was always the way when Thor was around females. It was not that he himself felt slighted, or even at all desired feminine company, but Loki found their unstinting obsession with his brother a constant source of irritation. It was utterly inexplicable; especially as all Thor had to recommend himself was an overabundance of muscle and his father’s adoration – his manners were barely equal to half of Baldr’s and his wit was far outstripped by Loki’s own. If it weren’t for their brother Baldr, then, quite apart from being the most favoured God in Asgard, Thor would also be the most loved. The very thought made Loki feel ill. As it was the fact that Thor’s neck could support his head was a source of constant wonder for Loki, and the idea of it getting any bigger was monstrous.

At the prolonged silence from her sons Frigg finally looked up from her work. The two young men did not even appear to be in the same room as her. Thor was still blatantly watching the blushing Gná with a vaguely idiotic grin on his face, whilst Loki’s youthful face seemed weighed down with some bitter preoccupation that turned up the corners of his mouth in an unpleasant way; it was an expression that Frigg had been seeing on his face more and more often of late, and the more it made its home on his features, the higher her anxiety rose.

Frigg clapped her hands sharply as she stood, the many gold and beaded bracelets on her wrists jangling against one another, asserting her natural imperiousness and majesty over the room and its occupants once more. The young Gods returned their attention to their mother. She was as tall as any nymph, and with her long golden tresses waving down her back, restrained only by a delicately crafted net of woven gold with amber beads, and her carriage and the tilt of her chin, it was easy to remember that she was Queen of Asgard; not just a city, but an entire world, and that she presided over the Nine Worlds.

“Leave us,” she said, dismissing her maids and the quintet with a wave of her hand. As the three goddesses and the musicians quitted the room Frigg faced her sons with a frown that was at once queenly and the mark of parental authority. “What happened this time, then?” She asked, reseating herself. The shade of a roguish smile returned to Loki’s face, his entire demeanour lightening. Thor’s face, however, darkened slightly and for a moment the room was plunged into cold shadow as a great storm front rolled over and blocked out the sun beyond the windows. Frigg ignored the temporary change in the weather, and kept her piercing eyes on Thor as light and warmth returned to the room once more.

“First he stole the boars Gullinbursti and Hildisvíni from Freyr and Freyja. Then he left them in my hall, where they proceeded to cause such havoc and mayhem that many thought Ragnarök had come upon us, though Heimdallr had not blown Gjallarhorn to warn us. By the time we had discovered and caught them not one of my rooms was not overturned or in some state of disorder; not _one_ in five hundred and forty rooms!” Thor ended the speech in thunderous tones, and the room darkened once more. In the gloom Loki restrained a snicker at the memory of the two boars rushing through his brother’s hall, scattering squealing goddesses, and upsetting the furniture. His eyes glittered through the murky darkness, alight with amused satisfaction. He had watched the entire spectacle invisible from the rafters after goading the boars with some judicious nips to their flanks while in the form of a flea.

Frigg turned a gimlet eye upon him as sunlight filled the room once again. “Well, my son? What is your explanation this time?” Loki gazed at her evenly, his face wiped clear of any amusement or mischief, and entirely innocent – perhaps too much so.

“ _Explanation?!_ You ask an _explanation_ of him?!!” Bellowed Thor. There was a low rumble of thunder beyond the windows and the merest flicker of lightning in a great swelling head of rapidly blackening clouds. Frigg, however, gave her elder son a stern and quelling look, and the weather returned to its original clemency in a heartbeat. Thor, although chastened by his mother, was determined continue, however. “There _is_ no explanation! We all know it is merely because he delights in such trickery and chaos!” Thor rounded on his brother, a vein pulsing in his temple, eyes daring him to say otherwise. Loki stared coolly back into his brother’s furious eyes, his own cold but perfectly calm.

“I was merely trying to aid you, brother,” he said, his voice modulated to flawless sincerity, his expression ingenuous once more.

“You –! …what?” Thor began to launch into a second tirade but was brought up short by his brother’s reply, his face crumpled in a frown of bafflement.

“You said that your goat Tanngrisnir was lame only yesterday afternoon; it would not be fair upon Tanngnjóstr to ask him to pull your chariot alone.” Loki gave his brother such a convincing look of injured virtuousness that Thor felt a twinge of shame, though he had done nothing to warrant it. “So I set out to borrow Freyr and Freyja’s boars this morning that you might not be inconvenienced by any delay. I know both beasts to be of a manageable disposition and so brought them to your hall Bilskirnir, not expecting them to become so wild.” Thor gazed into his brother’s wounded expression and felt his certainty and resolve softening. Frigg, however, was well used to Loki’s ploys, and held her determination with a firmer grasp than Thor.

“And what made them become so wild, my son?” She asked, the merest hint of shrewd curiosity in her voice. Loki turned his soulful gaze upon her; it was an expression calculated to melt even the hardest of hearts, and Frigg, canny as she was, felt its effects.

“I know not. Although,” he turned back to Thor, “when I entered your hall I did notice something by way of some gnats in the air. Indeed I was quite bothered by them, and so quitted your rooms swiftly, brother, and in my haste I forgot that I had not explained the presence of the boars to you, nor was I there to see them become so uncontrolled. I expect that the gnats must have tormented the poor beasts to beyond reason, and so resulted in their rampage. You must believe me that it was never my intention to create such destruction.” Thor gazed assessingly into his brother’s earnest face for a few hanging moments then smiled broadly. Genially he clapped him on the back with enough force to raze a small house, seizing the collar of Loki’s clothes just in time to prevent him from flying across the room and into the wall opposite.

“I see your honesty, and kind intentions, brother. Come; let us speak no more of it. Damaged furniture can easily be put to rights. Why! It is the perfect excuse to have everything re-crafted in a finer and better manner than they were before! And frightened feelings and anger are easily washed away with mead.”

As Thor spun the still winded, and internally peeved, Loki around to face the doors once more Frigg watched with narrowed eyes, her expression shrewd. As was so often the case she was not sure whether she was able to entirely believe Loki. Consummate liar and trickster that he was, she could not help but wish to believe the tales he always told, hoping that at least some small part of them was the truth. She never mentioned this of course, but it pained her heart that she never quite knew for sure either way; if she, his mother – for all intents and purposes – couldn’t tell, then who could?

As the brothers quitted Fensalir, Frigg was not left to her musings long, for she was soon met with the appalled countenances of Freyr and Freyja, simultaneously asking questions and apologising for their beasts. She sighed and began her sons’ explanations.

 

*

 

Káta tucked the book she was reading under the arch of her legs and gazed out of her bedroom window, arms wrapped around her peaked knees. Her room was on a corner of the ninth and final floor of the nymph’s hall, Mærsalr, and so sported two arched windows, rather than the standard one that most nymph’s rooms had. Her place on the wide sun-drenched carved wooden sill of one window afforded her a sweeping view of the nymph’s pavilion and the ornamental gardens and lakes and grottoes that surrounded it. A cooling breeze blew the gauze of the curtains inwards and brushed her sun bronzed mahogany curls back over her shoulders, filling the fine linen of her dress so that it billowed about her ankles and into the room. She peered down at a brightly clad group of her laughing fellows, her golden eyes narrowed. The group was large; their shrieks of laughter were carried to her on the wind, and all were fawning over a couple of gods whom she thought to be Kvasir and Ullr. She sighed, wrinkling her nose slightly. Kvasir was probably one of the smarmiest gods she had ever come across – even if he was the god of inspiration – for it was difficult to hold a conversation with him that had a single sentence free of his honeyed words. She couldn’t dispute his evident intellect, or the fact that he was good to talk to when she was most in need of intelligent conversation, but his unceasing flow of compliments, and constant declarations that he came down to Mærsalr merely because several of the nymphs were his muses, and the squabbles that these incited amongst the nymphs, were tiresome in the extreme – as well as easy to see through. At times, just to amuse herself, Káta would engage him in some verbal jousting, but eventually his incessant toadying weighed upon her patience and stamina and she would let the other nymphs reclaim his obsequious attentions with an eagerness that made her feel at once confounded and ill.

Ullr she could deal with for he was of plainer thought than Kvasir – at once naïvely innocent but powerfully honourable –, although he was always full of lengthy tales regarding the finer points of skiing and archery, in which he often reminded them he was unparalleled. For his fair face and manly stature, the nymphs favoured him with an equal degree of adoration to Kvasir – though he had not Kvasir’s pretty words and eloquent flattery –, and it could not be argued that he was not both honourable and noble, and certainly chivalrous; indeed he was extolled for his possession of every manly virtue, and was much in demand amongst the nymphs. More than one enterprising nymph had ‘accidentally’ tripped and twisted an ankle in his presence, pretending not to know he was there, just to have him rush to their aid and carry them back to the pavilion, revelling in the strength of his arms and the impressive firmness of his chest. Indeed, some had attempted to distinguish themselves in their creativity, going so far as to ‘fall’ into one of the lakes and pathetically flounder about, maintaining that they could not swim, and call for help, so that he would fearlessly dive in to rescue them and carry them to the bank, their arms wrapped about his strong neck, and pressing close against his streaming linen clad chest. Káta had watched these performances with a mixture of amusement, distaste and pity, occasionally taking it upon herself to rescue the unfortunate god from consecutive incidents – for he lacked the wit and guile to see their counterfeit nature – to the impotent fury of the foiled nymphs that her actions passed over.

When Káta had first come to live in Mærsalr many gods, including Kvasir and Ullr, had turned their attentions upon her (although Ullr’s attentions tended to take the form of lengthy anecdotes about various hunts and competitions, and were entirely innocent) – to the great displeasure and unrestrained jealousy of the other nymphs – for she was not only a new commodity, but also a physical oddity amongst her fellows, who were all gracefully tall and slim, their appendages willowy. Káta, however, was short in comparison to her peers, and her figure boasted curves that were a rare (and so belittled) quality amongst the nymphs. In stature she was not, in fact, short; being taller than the average goddess, however the difference of a few inches made her shorter than almost every nymph, and as a result the demeaning label of “little Káta” was assigned her very early in her association with the nymphs of Mærsalr, most of whom had a predilection for pettiness and were as shallow in their tastes as they were in their personalities which were small-minded and comprised largely of artifice, duplicity, coquetry, and at times spitefully vindictive.

Vanity also carved a very wide streak through the personalities of all, save a very select few, and large garland draped mirrors and dressing tables were a prominent feature in every single room. Every morning was spent in frivolously serious deliberation before their mirrors as each strove to outdo the others in her garments and the arrangement of her hair. In this, too, Káta was a disparaged peculiarity, for she cared little for the opinions of her fellow nymphs and their rivalries, choosing instead whatever dress most appealed to her (given her temperament for the day), the state of her hair reflecting the level of patience she had felt for the task at the time she executed it. This would not have been an issue amongst the other nymphs, in fact they would have welcomed Káta’s lack of endeavour to compete in beauty and popularity, had it not been for the fact that, regardless of Káta’s carelessness and freedom in selecting her dress and constructing her appearance, she had a freshness of beauty that few could claim or create – the existence of which she was entirely ignorant of –, and which far outstripped the adopted charms of the other nymphs. Her bearing and manners were entirely without artifice and there was something attractive about her sincerity and the direct honesty of the way she responded, though when she chose to be she was not without tact. However, for all that Káta was equipped with the tools to make her the centre of all the gods’ attentions, she often found their the constancy of their facile devotions tiresome, as all they desired of her were the simple affections the others provided; simpering blushes, oblivious adoration, pretty (though meaningless) conversation, a ready laugh – and on some occasions, more by way of physical attentions.

Upon discovering Káta’s uncommonly faceted personality, the gods soon returned to the excessive admiration and frolicking games that the other nymphs provided without stint or measure, preferring to bask in the single mindedness of their attentions and the simplicity of their conversation rather than exchange a flurrying repartee (that was devoid of the blind idolatry they had come to expect as a norm from nymphs) with Káta. Amongst the nymphs Káta was of a more unusual disposition, beside her appearance. Spurred on by the approval of the goddess Sjöfn, the other nymphs delighted in teasing the gods that came to see them, blatantly flirting to an outrageous extent, undeterred by the occasional reprimand by Freyja to whom they answered, so that many had had cause to call upon Frigg as they birthed claimed and unclaimed children. It was not that Káta disapproved of their exploits, indeed she had her own well honed skill set of charms and wiles that she had very quickly picked up upon her arrival (being an excellent observer), and was as accomplished a seductress as any of them. Although she had cause to she never put them to their full use, and, indeed, never had; rather it was a matter of interest.

Káta found little pleasure in the silliness that the other nymphs seemed to inhabit as a permanent mind-set, especially as it appeared to be their main tactic of allurement, and her own personality rebelled against such simplistic mindlessness. Merely walking past the open doors of their rooms and catching snippets of their conversation as they waxed lyrical over one or other of the god’s physical qualities, or boasted of their most recent lover, or fed off each other’s energy until they were in an unintelligible frenzy of idolatry, or (most often) plotted new tricks of allurement made her feel nauseous; hers was a more cunning turn of mind. Káta enjoyed a good trick as much as any of them, but her trickery involved more wit than charming an unsuspecting man into her bed. Indeed, her trickery tended to extend beyond the other nymph’s romantic (if indeed they could be called such) parameters to the creation of general amusement for herself, and she had often indulged in some minor pranks on the other nymphs to their great displeasure, for her artful guile and shrewd wit allowed her to outsmart and outmanoeuvre her fellows with an ease that frustrated the subjects of her schemes.

With a sigh, Káta abandoned her book and the warmth of her window sill, wishing, not for the first time, that her mother hadn’t insisted upon her spending time in the city of Asgard and in the company of the nymphs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to say, Frigg's handmaidens (Hlín, Fulla, and Gná) are actual canonical Norse Mythology goddesses, as are the names of Frigg's and Thor's halls and Freyja and Freyr's boars and Thor's goats.  
> Anything regarding the nymphs is entirely my own fabrication (given that they belong to Greek Mythology), although all non-canon names from the Nordic Myths and Legends are actual Nordic words, and chosen to reflect the personality of the individual in question.  
> Káta means 'glad' or 'cheerful'
> 
> Also, if you like this story, or any of my other ones, and you want access to sneak previews on chapters that I'm working on, Like my Facebook page, or Follow my Twitter :)  
> https://www.facebook.com/josephinetomkinsauthor  
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	3. A Rapid Descent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki seeks refuge from the world (and particularly Thor) in the great library of Asgard with his only confidante - the ancient librarian Fróði. His cares are not so easily left behind, however... Fróði does his best to help, but Loki is both tenacious and somewhat in denial, so that things very quickly go from bad to worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LOTS of Loki angst in this chapter - prepare yourself for a deluge.

Loki trudged along the wide alabaster paved path, his expression sour and brooding, not taking in the beautifully manicured gardens he passed. It had taken him a good twenty minutes before he had managed to escape Thor’s clutches, and the entire time he had endured an endless torrent of his brother’s plans for the refurbishment of his hall, his face set in a rictus of petulantly attempted sincerity. Loki’s poorly concealed surliness had been lost on Thor, however, immersed as he was in his grand plans. Loki kicked angrily at a stray tussock of grass growing between two stones; trust Thor to turn the destruction the boars had wreaked to his own advantage. To re-furnish his hall with more elaborate articles than before, order finer hangings for the walls and new furs for the floors; he would probably even request the sons of Ivaldi to forge special decorative shields and weapons to adorn his already laden walls.

Loki snorted, shaking his head as he put on a little burst of speed to jog lightly up the great curved stone steps up to the bronze inlaid doors of the great library of Asgard, with which he was well familiar, his feet scuffing dryly against the smooth stone. It was one of his sanctuaries, and could almost always be relied upon to guarantee him shelter from whatever or whoever he wished to leave behind. As far as he knew Thor had never even set foot in the library since their briefly enforced instruction there as children, let alone thought to seek him out there, and Loki wondered idly whether Thor even remembered that it existed; he had high (and not entirely unfounded) hopes that he didn’t. Regardless, the library was where Loki often retreated to when in need of a quiet think, or a place to hole up in, away from the brash boisterous attention of his brother and, more importantly, the condescending and ill-masked discontent of their father. Indeed, when life troubled him most, Loki would withdraw to the library and immerse himself in the reality obliterating balm of other’s thoughts and tales, calming himself with the temporary respite of shedding all his cares to become someone new in a microcosm where demoralising disappointments and fiascos didn’t happen with such regularity. It was from these tales that he took comfort and hope, although such fragile flickers of emotions were all too easily dashed apart on the rocks of Odin’s unforgiving disapproval, and in them that he found solace with other lost souls whose endings had eventually come right – regardless of their fictional or biographical states.

Loki sighed as he made his way to the distant corner that he had claimed as his own and that had become his constant haunt. It was a comfortable little nook that he had found on his first foray into the library when he was a great deal younger, situated in a tucked away bulge of the immense building. It was a smaller one of the reading alcoves that were set into the walls at intervals, and had a round table with a couple of high-backed chairs adorned with plump cushions, and a large glassed window that filled it with light and warmth on sunny days.

Once there, Loki threw himself into his preferred chair, his posture sagging until he was slumped with his chin resting on his chest, not even bothering to summon a book from the shelves. In the short walk from the entrance to his alcove his thoughts had followed a progressively deepening downward spiral until he no longer thought solely of his frustrated plans of the day, but of the futility of all his efforts when he was measured against Thor. Uncountable past failures rose up to swamp him with an unceasing barrage of disappointment and inadequacy, wrapping him in their cold embrace and dragging him further and further down to the deeper, darker recesses of his soul. He was never going to win; never to triumph – he wasn’t _fated_ to do so. Thor _was_. Thor was destined to do great things; their father regularly pronounced it – and who was to know better than him? He had drunk from the well of Mímir; he was King of the Gods; the Allfather! Loki wasn’t destined for greatness and acclaim. Even in the smallest of matters such as this trick – he was doomed to failure. He wasn’t even spared in that either. He wasn’t allowed a quiet failure; it was always the big events that exploded in his face in a spectacular catastrophe that invariably led to Odin telling him he was a dishonour, not only to their family and himself, but to all the gods; Æsir and Vanir alike. Apathy lay upon Loki in a thick depressing sheet. Reading was beyond him – even as an escape from the emotions that were plaguing him; he could not bring himself to do anything except be – and at that moment even _that_ felt like a tall order.

As he sat, a pall of gloom settling over him like a raincloud and a venomous melancholia seeping out from him to fill the alcove until it felt much darker and colder than it was, an old god, weighed down by his woollen clothes, came shuffling along, his face split in a gummy beam. Loki’s eyes barely flickered to him as he came up and sat with a happy sigh in the chair opposite. It was Fróði, the learned keeper god, and head librarian.

“Well now, young Loki, and what has you in such a mood that you look like you’ve been deboned?” He enquired after pushing around in a pocket and producing a pair of slightly fluffy fake teeth carved from ivory that he inserted into his grinning mouth.

Loki twisted his mouth slightly, and looked to one side, his nostrils flaring, determinedly remaining slumped – refusing to be drawn out from his fuming lethargy even by the diverting spectacle of Fróði sputtering and wiping his tongue for pocket fluff.

“Ah, I see.” Croaked Fróði, his voice witteringly happy, and yet full of sympathetic understanding. “It’s your brother, isn’t it?” He said, shrewdly, his rheumy eyes suddenly sharp and bright. Loki sighed a long drawn out breath, closing his eyes for a long time as though just the action of breathing was a fierce effort. Finally he nodded curtly. “Mmm.” Fróði’s voice was canny, his eyes keen. “So what’s he been up to, then?”

There was a long silence, broken eventually by Fróði leaning forwards at the prince’s lack of responsiveness and giving him a prod in the ribs. Loki spasmed upwards in his chair like an eel out of water, his face twisting into a reluctant grin and looking a great deal younger and more carefree for a few precious moments. However, the instant he escaped Fróði’s reach, his face became sullen and burdened once more.

“Fine.” He ground out, his teeth clenched, his hands grasping the arms of his chair with such force that his already pale knuckles gleamed white like sun-bleached bones, and the wood creaked in protest. Fróði clucked with vague amusement at his success, while Loki straightened his posture and tugged at his clothes, his eyes preoccupied. “It’s…not so much something that he’s _done_ ,” he finally began with great difficulty, “it’s more that…he – I mean, _I_ – oh! I don’t know!” Loki flung himself backwards in his chair once more with alarming violence, frowning heavily, his mouth set in a grim line, and his hands grasping his skull with such force that the tendons stood out.

Fróði watched in solemn silence whilst Loki calmed once more, his hands slipping to his lap as he resumed figuring out the train of thought that he had attempted to relate. Eventually, the head librarian’s patience was rewarded with the young god unfolding his taut frame and leaning forwards, one long fingered pale palm outstretched in an unconscious plea.

“Why is it that everything – _everything_ – always works out for him, Afi?” He asked, his green eyes for once free of all barriers and as confused and helplessly pleading as a child’s. Fróði pursed his withered lips thoughtfully; encouraged by Loki’s use of the epithet he usually called him by when happy and comfortable. Loki, however, continued on, the words rushing out of his mouth in a tumbling torrent, the banks of restraint and protection that had kept them back broken. “He’s always favoured by our father, he’s favoured by practically every single god or goddess in this whole dammed city, he can do everything, he never puts a foot wrong – huh – unlike _me_.” Loki spat the words out venomously, and for a moment a streak of pain and disgust flittered across his face. Fróði winced slightly at the bitterness of the expression so inappropriate on one as young as Loki’s face, and yet it was an expression that he had often there; most often after a confrontation with Odin. Furthermore, whilst Fróði knew the disgust to be directed at Odin and Thor, the full brunt of it was centred on Loki himself. Years of mistreatment and falling short of Odin’s standards had led to a bitter self-loathing that, try as he might, Fróði had yet to alleviate. Loki’s thoughts too seemed to have been derailed onto the tangent of his father, and the lack of approval he gained from him. “There’s nothing I can do in father’s eyes that he will ever accept! Anything I do is compared to Thor, and what I _have_ achieved is somehow found to be wanting! Even when I’ve put my all into it! Even when I have exhausted every single resource available to me, and Thor has just done whatever he felt like – I _always_ fail! _It’s always my fault!_ I’ve never put in enough effort! And Thor’s always rewarded! He’s always praised! Even his halls are the most extravagant of all the halls in Valhalla; father’s said so a thousand times!” Loki’s face was scrunched up with resentment and jealousy laced his words. “And even when one of my tricks seems to go to plan, Thor always manages to recover quickly from it and end up in an even better position than before! Why?! Why does nothing I do – nothing I try – _ever_ go right for me?! _Never?!_ ” Loki gazed at the head librarian, the only confidant he had in the entire city, his un-guarded eyes vulnerable and questioning – clear green windows into his bleak miserable soul.

Fróði sighed, carefully considering his reply; Loki was rarely so open in discussing his problems, most often remaining stuck in unhealthy brooding silences for several weeks before shrouding the matters that plagued his innermost thoughts in a cover of mischievousness and trickery. When conversations between them became this open, Fróði knew he had to tread as carefully at lightly as possible across the fractured skin that was the young god’s trust and mental state; all previous ones had ended up in furious denial or brow-beating frustration with Loki storming out. Loki’s troubles with his brother and father, and everything he did in his life were so interlinked and entwined that to talk of one issue was always to drag along a whole host of others to follow on the heels of any discussion. What made matters more difficult was that Odin’s unstinting dislike of Loki was rooted in a secret that had been kept from Loki for so many years that most had forgotten it.

“King of the Gods, Odin may be, Loki, but that does not mean he is without flaws and prejudices.” Fróði paused ostensibly to take a breath, but really to give himself a few more moments to pick his way through the gauntlet of eggshells that lay before him. “What he deems worthy is not all that _can_ be worthy. He doesn’t value you because he doesn’t _know_ you; he does not see your worth, because your worth is in areas beyond his ken. Thor is less complex than you; he is like his father – they are both quick to anger, and Thor, like Odin in his youth, is arrogant. Odin does not understand you because you are cast in a different mould to him. He makes no effort to understand you, because it is easier not to – to simply decide for himself what he thinks you are and judge you from that; he does not _want_ you to be more than he deems you to be. It is not right and it is not just, nor fair to you, but that is how things are.” The old god leant forwards and tapped Loki over his heart, the young god’s desolate eyes following the movement. “But trials make you stronger, if only you can look at them in the right way; your heart beats with a firmer will. And remember that while Thor is given everything without effort, you have had to struggle and fight. It makes you stronger in a way different to Thor’s muscle. Brawn is not always the key to everything, and your brother still has much to learn. Even if you don’t appear to get any results, never forget that everything you have been through has benefitted you in some way – even if it is unseen and unknown, the change is still there, and one day you will know it.” Loki’s unimpressed po-faced expression told Fróði everything he already knew, and he could already see the young god’s barriers re-erecting themselves in his clear green eyes. “No one is perfect, you know.” Fróði said gently. Loki snorted and stared down at his long fingers which were drawn into fists.

“Thor is.” He muttered. Fróði frowned.

“Look at me, Loki.” Fróði leant forwards, determined that if nothing else, the troubled young god would take this message to heart at least, and there was something in his tone that forced Loki to lift his head and eyes. “You are much more than your father has ever thought you to be, or ever wished you to be. What he thinks of you does _not_ define you; we are to be what we wish to be, if only we have the strength to do so.” The old god remained staring into Loki’s eyes for a few moments until finally the prince blinked and broke the contact. His eyes had clouded over with anger once more, and with its return, his fury had obliterated his earlier openness. He gave a non-committal sigh that was clearly a dismissal. Fróði nodded, half to himself, half to Loki, got up and shuffled away, encouraged to think that Loki might at least have listened to him for once by the lack of a disagreeing outburst. Past experience told him that it was useless to try to talk the young prince around when he had such a forbidding expression in his eyes.

 

In the coming days and weeks, Loki’s depression remained about him like an odourless miasma. It filled the space about him, and his prolonged presence in a room with others would gradually lead to it affecting the mood of all those present, though he never spoke a word, remaining in a sullen silence – his eyes at once wounded and burning with anger, and very occasionally the faintest glimmer of well hidden confusion. He refused to speak or answer any question put to him, instead falling into a resentful silence, his jaundiced eyes clouded over and brooding. All attempts at conversation with him were met with a blank hateful glare that soon stopped even the most insistent of souls, and if he did reply it was only to utter cruel rejoinders that always hit their intended mark with stunning accuracy.

It was not until he managed to reduce eight minor goddesses to anguished tears in a matter of minutes that Frigg took the matter in hand with a serious consideration. Loki being churlish was nothing to be surprised at, in fact it was to be expected – he was often rude and could be spiteful and vindictive when the mood took him, it was just how he was, and he regularly fell into short periods of sourness –, but he had never before exuded such unbridled and indiscriminate hate with such constancy. It did not matter who it was that came across his path, all were subjected to the full force of his ill-temper, and felt the harsh stinging lash of his tongue. Furthermore, as part of his nature as the god of lies and trickery he was well aware of the soft spots that each individual had, and sometimes hid, and was ruthless in his exploitation of them, fashioning each insult or jibe with its own particular sting to cut deepest where it hurt most, and cause the utmost pain or distress.

Odin was kept carefully in the dark of Loki’s newfound and inexplicable unpleasantness, for Frigg knew that a confrontation with his father when in such a state would lead only to a worsening of Loki’s behaviour, and the speaking of many things that would have been better left forgotten or unsaid and unmeant. Frigg had a strong understanding that words, once said, could never be taken back – no matter how genuinely they wished to be rescinded – and that words and thoughts said and made in anger were worse still and did the most damage, even if their only intent had been to temporarily hurt.

Once Loki caught wind that his mother was involving herself in the matter, he took judicious steps to remove himself from the strongest areas of her influence, and avoided her at all costs. He had no intention to give any account for his behaviour, and did not want her questions, kindness, or involvement in the matter; it was not as if she would understand it or how he was feeling in any case. His absence at meals was noted by all those that had had to sit closest to him with a distinct relief, for they were all tired of occasionally glancing up to find his haunted eyes burning into theirs, radiating malevolence, and being constantly on edge, waiting for the inevitable put-down that he so exquisitely timed – never quite enough for them to engage him in an argument, but often stretching their nerves to breaking point. They could deal with his tricks well enough, in fact there were times when they were quite amusing and the trickster god could be pleasant to be around, but this was completely different. His disappearances in this could not be hidden from Odin, but the king of the gods was unconcerned at his younger son’s absence from table having always considered him peculiar in his ways, and pleased to be rid of the sight of him – for meals were the one time that he could not imagine and wish away physical reminders of Loki.

As a result, Loki found himself spending his entire day either in the library – lounging in his chair with such apathy that had Fróði not known better, he would have taken the young god to be one of those that had lost control over their body –, or tucked away in the most obscure of places – up long disused towers, scaling walls to sit in sheltered corners of the roofs of the various halls of Valhalla, or resting in the shadows of the peaked ceilings of unused rooms, his long slim frame draped along the great beams that formed the rafters as he stared up at nothing with blank soulful eyes, struggling with the conflicting inner turmoil that burned in his soul. Fróði had been right in his assumption that Loki had taken his words to heart, even if he hadn’t initially given any indication of it, thinking hard on the matter and turning it over and over in his mind. The resulting discord of his intense brooding had escalated to such a point that he was at war within himself, his mind consumed by the matter, and he was making himself ill; torturing himself from the inside out. His already spare frame became emaciated – for he did not bother to catch up on those meals that he missed –, his face a gaunt skull, his skin dry and taut and loose in all the wrong places, with angry eyes that burned with a worrying feverish brightness, deeply set in darkly shadowed sockets, gazing out through lank brittle hair. His clothes hung off his shrunken frame poorly, and his muscles lost their tone like a horse stabled too long and were eaten up as his body attempted to protect itself against the enforced starvation; his very fingers were no more than bones encased in skin. Those that knew him would not have recognised him, but for his colours, and those that _did_ see him were at once horrified and fearful when they did recognise the walking skeleton that glanced fleetingly at them before melting quickly away.

At least part of everyday would be spent in his alcove of the library, reading only if he could muster the energy to (which was not very often), generally just sitting in his chair. Every day, Fróði, with his uncanny knack for knowing when the prince was about, would appear, shuffling along with a gummy smile. Sometimes he would say nothing, and merely sit and keep the preoccupied young god company in as companionable silence as was possible with Loki radiating discontent, and other times he would chatter away about various scraps of gossip or information that popped into his head, not expecting any reply, refusing to be doused by the prince’s dull spirits. For all his lively banter, however, Fróði watched the young prince’s decline with anxious eyes. Each day more of the flesh seemed to have been stripped away from Loki’s body, and his skin hung in dark bags beneath his eyes from countless sleepless nights. Fróði had never seen him in such a condition, and he did not want to think just how long the prince could continue in such a manner, god or not – there were some things that all bodies required, mortal and immortal, and they couldn’t last long without them.

They did not revisit the root of Loki’s problems again. Fróði knew that it was something that Loki was working at coming to terms with, attempting to adjust his thoughts and feelings, and failing to successfully do so several times a day – as evidenced by either a sharp hurtful remark to the understanding head librarian, or by his stormy departure from the library (which more than once drew scandalised glares from Fróði’s wife Berghildr– a termagant woman that all feared with just reason – although Berghildr’s heart was not really in it, for she was just as concerned about Loki as her husband). Fróði bore Loki’s insults with a calm equanimity, understanding the impotent fuel of frustration that fired them, and also too that they were made with no real sincerity, but more as a venting of his anger.

Loki was a good deal more grateful for Fróði’s presence than he would have ever put into words. It was a blessing to know that there was at least one other beyond himself that knew and, though Loki did not know this, understood much better than Loki himself understood, what he was feeling. Fróði’s reliability, too, was something that he depended upon heavily; to be able to arrive in the library and wait only a few moments before he appeared was one of the few stable things Loki could cling to, and he clung to it with the ferocity of a drowning man. Fróði’s constancy was rock firm, and knowing that he would always be there gave Loki comfort in his darker moments, and provided a welcome reprieve that helped him resurface when feelings of his own overwhelming inadequacy threatened to swamp him. Loki also found that he trusted Fróði, implicitly; for Fróði had never broken his word to Loki in all the years they had known each other, and he kept all that Loki had ever shared with him as secret as the young god desired. All this combined to form an unconditional solidarity that Loki had never found in any other person his entire life, and it was a feeling of such peace to be able to rely on another and trust them as much as – more than – he trusted himself.

His daily struggle to bring peace to the irreconcilable contents of his head and heart was little aided by the fact that so much of what he felt and knew was too tangled for him to fully understand. It was like his mind had become a quagmire that he was stuck waist deep in, and he knew he either had to cross it or be sucked down. As it was, he felt that his daily struggles were only just enough to keep his head above the surface. Fróði’s presence was soothing, except when his nerves were raked raw by his failed attempts, and his temper fit to burst, his patience shattered. Loki did his best in every attempt to fit the pieces together in a way that made sense or pleased him, but it was like working with a puzzle that was missing half the pieces, and every effort came to nothing and ended in crushing failures that drained away a little more of his hope and stamina each time.

Beyond the jealousy, and guilt of the jealousy, and bitter anger with his father and brother, and self-loathing that he turned in on himself, and his attempts to reconcile who he wanted to be with who he was, Loki fought his loneliness. Fróði was the only being he had ever spoken candidly with his entire life, and Loki felt his heart burdened with so many secrets that there were times when he wanted to scream with frustration. He wanted to share the contents of his wounded soul, and yet he also wanted to keep his problems to himself – his weaknesses –, shut away where they could not be seen, and where – hopefully – they could be forgotten. None of what he truly felt could ever be shared with any of the members of his family; he was too different from them – a race apart, almost –, and none of them had ever fully understood him. They understood what small parts of him he allowed them access to, that he created and displayed for them, but beyond that, he was locked to their entry. Comprehension of his inner self was never going to be within their grasp (there were times when he wondered whether it would ever be within his _own_ grasp), and Loki wondered whether there would ever be anyone that he could share the entirety of his weighed down soul with; a person who would not judge him for his dishonourable thoughts and feelings, but merely accept and understand them and him and be content. As yet, he was finding it difficult to do so for himself, and his hopes of finding another who could do what he himself was failing to do every single day were non-existent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fróði and Berghildr are my OCs.  
> Fróði translates to 'the wise one' or 'wise' or 'learned'  
> Berghildr means 'protection', 'help' or 'battle'  
> Also - the nickname that Loki uses for Fróði - Afi - is a nickname that used to be in common usage, and means 'grandfather'. I'm using it as a term of endearment, I guess you could say.
> 
> Also, if you like this story, or any of my other ones, and you want access to sneak previews on chapters that I'm working on, Like my Facebook page, or Follow my Twitter :)  
> https://www.facebook.com/josephinetomkinsauthor  
> https://twitter.com/jtomkinsauthor


	4. Breaking the Apathy of Bitterness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki's behaviour has not gone unnoticed, and Frigg, mother that she is, feels it is time that she intervenes before he does serious damage to himself. The trouble is, intervening in Loki's affairs is a delicate business, and the individual assigned to the task is anything but...

Frigg interlaced her ringed and bejewelled fingers in her lap, tightening her grip; the only concession she made to the exact level of her concern. She was in her morning chambers, having decided that it would be wisest to consult those she had summoned in an obvious place, rather than somewhere more secretive – which would lead to raising Odin’s suspicions if he caught wind of what was happening, not to mention awkward questions.

Loki, she had always felt, was her responsibility, for it was blatantly obvious that Odin cared little for him even as he lavished his attentions upon Thor. If Odin were to hear of Loki’s troubles, then she was sure that he would deal with them in a high handed, brash, and thoroughly inappropriate manner, and the discovery would most certainly sink Loki even further in his view, justifying his belief that Loki was weak; it was not something she was going to risk. Besides, Loki had already made it clear that he didn’t welcome her involvement in whatever it was that was troubling him, let alone Odin’s. As it was she knew she was walking on thin ice by having Loki followed in an attempt to discover what it was that was troubling him, but her maternal instinct drove her to do _something_ , especially as there had been occasions in the past when she had failed to fend off Odin’s unjust wrath for mistakes Loki might have made.

Frigg sighed, and regarded the god and goddess standing before her. Eir, a Valkyrie goddess and sometime companion of Frigg who was known to have considerable healing and medical skill, and Bragi, the god of wisdom and poetry; she had dispatched both earlier in the week to observe her son whenever possible and discover what they could.

“Have you found ought of what it is that troubles my son so?” She asked. The two glanced at each other. Bragi cleared his throat, a concerned hand drifting up to straighten the woven wreath of beech and ash leaves that crowned his wavy hair, and when he spoke his long brown beard waggled.

“Prince Loki has more wrong with him than simply being out of temper as is his usual wont. He alternates between periods of intense and undirected rage, and bouts of moping apathy; all conducted in a brooding silence. He no longer plays tricks on any of the gods or goddesses – even those which he used to set every day so that it became a habit for their subjects to negate them; all have been abandoned. It is very disconcerting. He has taken to frequenting the strangest of places; climbing buildings and sitting on the roofs, going up towers we no longer use, and hiding in rooms that are empty. He also spends a great deal of his time in the library – most often in the company of the head librarian.” Bragi sighed. “The difference is such that it affects his whole personality and being; and in my observation of him, I have found myself wishing for his tricky self to be back with us once more. I fear that if he remains in this state over long he will make himself irreparably ill.” Frigg’s eyes widened at Bragi’s words.

“And this _is_ all?” Frigg clarified. Bragi sighed, his eyes down swept, and he exchanged an uncomfortable glance with Eir, who nodded slightly.

“From what I can make out, he does not eat – he does not sleep; he has become little more than a walking skeleton…but with a terrible fire in his eyes that would consume the soul that looked upon them; I cannot think what has happened to his own,” replied Bragi heavily, and with great reluctance. “Mother of him though you are, I think you would have great difficulty in recognising your son.” Frigg was not Queen of Asgard for nothing. Internally she was swaying, her heart shrunk and crying out for help, but externally she remained calm, though her eyes had become very bright. Bragi glanced towards his companion with a nod.

Eir stepped forwards, tossing her head slightly so that her waist-length fiery mane flipped over her shoulder, her white kirtle sweeping the floor. “What ails the prince is not within my power to heal, my lady.” She said gently. “I have felt for his spirit, and it is sorely afflicted. He is heartsick, but in a way that I have not come across before. His does not manifest itself in the manner that I am used to seeing in youths and young maids, and yet that is the only reason I can think for his being so afflicted, although I have never felt such before. Do you know if he has pursued and been rejected by any person of late?”

Frigg felt almost like laughing, despite the seriousness of the situation. “Love has never been on Loki’s mind.” She replied dryly. “He fairly cringes at the sight of Thor surrounded by women, though I cannot think why. Neither females, nor males, nor anything else have ever been in his particular line of interest in such a way as yet…in time, perhaps.” Frigg frowned, her fingers pressed to her lips; shelving her worry and pain lest it cripple her faculties, and focussing on the information Eir had brought her. “But his heartsickness – what is it about it that makes it so different?”

Eir’s fine brows contracted as she thought, and a spasm of pain flickered across her face. “His soul feels wounded and sad – there is a great gaping hole in his heart that engulfs much of him, it is far from shallow, and is the work of many years –, and the edges fester with a powerful bitterness. It is poisoning his spirit…one could almost say he is dying from the inside out.” Frigg’s eyes widened, her hands tightening on themselves, and for a moment her eyes gleamed wetly. But then it was gone, her control regained. Eir continued, “I could not say whether his current silence is because he is wasting away due to this crevasse or if it is because he is struggling to heal it; his very essence is in conflict.”

“I would think, my lady, that whatever the cause of this it is something that has been accumulating for a long time.” Bragi continued gently. “For what Eir described to feel and see to me after watching Loki’s spirit had the touch of a long nursed grievance. Something recent has tipped the balance and caused his sudden strangeness. Although neither Eir nor myself can determine what it might be, this is something that should be fixed with due haste.” Frigg nodded, thinking hard on what it could be that troubled Loki.

“Ahem.” There was a polite cough from the doors, one of which was ajar. The heads of all three snapped to see who it was, hearts leaping. Kvasir stepped in, his expression apologetic through his plaited brown beard and hair.

“Kvasir; why is it that you interrupt our private counsel?” Asked Frigg in a hard voice, her normally kindly eyes cold. Respectfully, the god moved forwards, bowing before his queen, and then straightening the leathers he wore.

“I was passing in the corridor beyond, my lady,” he began politely, “and I could not help but overhear some of what passed between you all. I listened with some interest when I heard the name of our Prince Loki mentioned, for I have often spent time with him, listening to his finer japes, giving him a little inspiration for some of his tricks where they needed it, and sometimes even helping him.” Frigg tapped her nails on the arms of her chair, her entire attitude revealing her thinly veiled impatience. Her mood was not lost on Kvasir, and he hurried on. “What I mean to say, is that his dullness and temper have not been lost on me, and I think I may have a way to recover his former amiability.” All three listeners glanced up sharply, and stared at Kvasir intently, although their scrutiny did not seem to waver his confidence. “It could well be that Loki has merely run out of inspiration, and is frustrated with it and himself. Perhaps he even blames its disappearance on himself. I know that many of the mortals that have cried out my name for inspiration are similarly affected, and the more extreme ones forsake their food and bed as the prince has done, making themselves physically ill when all that has occurred is a barrenness of their mind.” Kvasir paused, gauging Frigg’s response to his words.

“Well, what do you suggest?” She asked. Kvasir smiled charmingly, assured of having an attentive listener.

“I suggest that he finds himself a muse,” he replied. “I myself spend a great deal of my time down at Mærsalr with the nymphs, for they are amusing and their antics are engaging enough. I think this may be what Loki needs. They are tricky, albeit in a different way to our prince, but they may refresh his mind, and if not, at least prevent him from dwelling on whatever it is that troubles him so.” Frigg was nodding slightly, seeing the sense of the god’s words. Encouraged, Kvasir continued. “I could speak with him, if you so wish, my lady. As we were on amicable terms before this sickening of his, he may be less inclined to reject me in the same manner that he has done with others.” Frigg nodded once, then gazed at the still waiting Eir and Bragi, who had watched and listened in silence. Eir seemed accepting enough of Kvasir’s proposition although her expression remained concerned, but Bragi’s heavy brows were drawn together, his eyes preoccupied in the manner of a man marshalling his arguments.

“Your thoughts, Bragi?” Asked Frigg, her shrewdly assessing eyes fixed upon his countenance.

“I cannot believe that the lack of a muse is the fount of Prince Loki’s problems, my lady. Such behaviour cannot merely be allotted to a loss of inspiration – nor such a wound in his spirit as Eir saw.” Bragi began, his tone carefully measured, although his disdain remained etched in his face. “Kvasir has a way of simplifying matters, and we all know that he gets more than inspiration from the nymphs, though he never says it.” He directed his words towards his injured looking fellow god with contemptuous venom. Kvasir made to protest his innocence, but Frigg had turned a piercing eye upon him, and under her sharp gaze he fell silent.

“I have heard of the time you spend with the nymphs, Kvasir; from Freyja and Sjöfn – and whilst their tales may differ, their facts tally. Do not believe me blind to the truth. It is not that I disapprove, but know that it is better to speak with plain honesty.” She eyed Kvasir sternly, and her very bearing reminded all in the room that they were speaking to a Queen, not just a major goddess. Kvasir nodded solemnly. “However,” Frigg’s demeanour lightened, “I see your suggestion to be a worthwhile one, and I hope dearly that the cause of my son’s problems is as simple as you believe it to be.” Bragi opened his mouth to say something but was silenced by a glance from Frigg. “Do not think that I slight your opinion, Bragi. However, unless you can offer me some likely suggestion that might cure Loki, I am afraid you must concede to my decision to follow Kvasir’s plan.” Bragi sighed, clearly at a loss.

“My lady.” He replied, yieldingly with a small bow. Frigg inclined her head.

“Thank you, and you Eir, for your efforts.” It was a dismissal. Eir and Bragi curtseyed and bowed, exiting. “Kvasir; go to my son. He ought to be in the library according to Eir’s observations. Make your suggestions, but do not tell of my involvement. I sense that he does not wish to share his troubles with me, and would resent my intrusion. After you have done so, come back and tell me of your success; I am counting on you.” Kvasir nodded solemnly, bowed, and exited.

Frigg sighed as her attendants re-entered, rubbing her temples distractedly a deep frown furrowing her smooth brow. What Eir and Bragi had said about Loki was worrying, and that they had only come up with a single solution – and that by chance – was not reassuring. She only wished that, in their confusion, Eir and Bragi had accidentally overstated the seriousness of Loki’s irritable depression; she could not bear to think that there was something weighing upon his mind that she didn’t know about and that was eating him from the inside out – especially if there was nothing she could do to prevent it.

“Do you wish to rest, my lady?” Enquired Fulla, solicitously. Frigg shook her head.

“No,” she replied, “I am just a little out of sorts; I shall be fine soon. Call in the musicians; I find myself in need of a soothing tune.”

 

*

 

It took Kvasir some little time to locate the library. He had been there before, but infrequently, and once there he spent even more time in its cavernous depths trying to locate Loki. It was a difficult hunt, for the god had no certainty that Loki _was_ in the library, merely the assumption, and its size did nothing to ease his task.

Eventually, after having the misfortune to accidentally walk into the back of Berghildr as she shelved books, and be treated to a strict warning from the tall and imposingly large bodied goddess, he discovered Loki’s alcove and walked up to him as he sat in a funk of apathy half heartedly reading a book, with a sigh of relief. It was only his pleasure at finally locating Loki that prevented Kvasir’s expression from displaying the shock he felt upon seeing the prince – for he had only heard Bragi’s report, and not seen its effects first hand. Carefully he schooled his manner, however, feeling it would be better to skirt such a matter with the prince, which would, undoubtedly, be delicate.

Loki did not feel the same sense of relief at seeing Kvasir, and was not pleased at having his solitude interrupted, for his mind’s tenacity had been loosening of late due to the deprivation his body had undergone, so that reprieves from the nettling issue that he daily battled with were becoming more frequent. It was a double edged sword, however, for although his mind was given more rest, his thoughts were becoming easier to scatter which only served to increase his frustration. He was already in a slightly tetchy mood, Fróði and his agreeable influence having departed a while since, and was in little humour to give consequence to Kvasir’s concerns about Berghildr and his entreaties to exit the library to the gardens outside where they could talk in something above a whisper.

Eventually, when it became clear that Loki was determined to remain in his chair, and in a mood that made him as stubborn as an old ram – although thankfully not in one that resulted in the unprovoked hurling of insults – Kvasir cut his losses and sat in Fróði’s chair; an inadvertent gesture that pricked Loki’s growing irritation, for just as he had claimed the alcove for his sole use, and just as he always sat in the same chair, so did the opposite chair belong solely to Fróði – to have another sit in it was intolerable.

“If you don’t mind my saying so, you seem to have been somewhat out of sorts of late,” Kvasir began. A dangerous spark of pique flashed in Loki’s eyes, but he said nothing and continued to stare at his book, though he was not taking in a single sentence. “We have not met up of late, and I find myself missing hearing your tales of trickery.” Kvasir leant forwards with the air of a conspirator. “I think you have lost your inspiration; your muse, if you will.” Loki was hard pressed to restrain a snort of amusement at the inaccuracy of Kvasir’s assumption. However, the smile showed in the lifting of the corners of his eyes, and his companion took it to be a good sign. “It is nothing to be ashamed of or angry about; it happens to everyone…well, except me, of course.” Kvasir let out a peculiar little giggle and snort of amusement, as though he had made a particularly good joke. Loki ground his teeth. “Why don’t you come down with me to the nymph’s hall – Mærsalr. They provide good sport. They’re petty in their moods, and their tricks are simple contrivances, but you will find yourself greatly amused – and they all have charms enough to recommend them. If they tempt and whet your appetite, they are more than willing to satisfy it.” Kvasir winked. Loki refrained from rolling his eyes. Such base activities he left to his brother; the thought of taking women to his bed was a dull one, he knew from experience – and he had better things to do with his time than listen to their inane wittering which would, like as not, be entirely without sincerity. If Thor wanted to blinker himself to their artifice, that was fine, but he had no need of it.

Besides which, finding a woman that genuinely cared to be with him was an impossible thought – and not one that was particularly high on his agenda; the most interest any females took in him was due to his status as a prince, or as a means of introduction to either of his brothers. Generally he was shunted to one side where women were concerned, for all had eyes for Thor and Baldr, particularly Thor, and all seemed either to snub him, be repelled by him, or be afraid of him, if not a combination of all three. Indeed, the demi-goddess that had last shared his bed had actually had the nerve to ask if she could meet Thor before they had even finished. Needless to say, Loki had willed his clothes back on in an instant and dematerialised with her into the middle of the plain of Iða, then returned to his bed to sleep, leaving her stranded there. He had not been entirely without generosity, however, having left her the bed sheet to wrap herself in, although she little deserved it. Her clothes he had disappeared, having no need for them. She had returned to Asgard a good week or so later, having been discovered by the Æsir when the gods had assembled in their hall Glaðsheimr and the goddesses in Vingólf for a meeting. However she was too terrified to recount the tale of how she had come to be there – fearing Loki’s sharp eyes from the shadows of where he had stood behind his parent’s thrones during her audience with them. No, she had been the last, Loki decided, and was likely to remain so for a very long time; he wasn’t about to let himself become a stool for idiotic females to stand on in an attempt to get closer to his idiotic brother. Loki had long ago learnt not to expect anything from females and to simply to ignore them unless they were to be made tools of and implemented in his schemes – in which case, if they were essential, he charmed them, tapping a hidden and extensive reservoir of charisma.

Kvasir, however, was oblivious to Loki’s thoughts, and continued on. “If not, you may still find them wily enough to watch, and you may find some ideas kindled by their activities.” Kvasir gazed at Loki expectantly, and eventually Loki unbent enough to allow him a non-committal grunt.

Kvasir pursed his lips, and took up the bit once more.

He rattled on for quite some time, waxing eloquent on the charms of several of his favourite nymphs, relating amusing anecdotes, and saying all he could think that might sway the young god to cast off his languor and to come down to the nymphs. Mærsalr was quite some distance, and Kvasir – in his desperation to make the journey appealing, and his determination to stir the prince – described at length the various sights that could be seen on the way there. In this he had caught a thread of Loki’s interest, for the distance itself – regardless of whatever wonders there might be to behold along the way – was appealing to him. To get away, not only from Valhalla, but from the very area that it was in, away out to the city bounds; to the edge where things became more open. Where there were green swards, and forests, and lakes; freedom. Where there was space that was not under the immediate dominion of his father, and free from the constant expectation that Thor could appear from anywhere to rope him into discussions about how fine his hall’s refurbishments looked. That was appealing indeed – Valhalla was large, but hiding places were by no means exhaustive. However, Loki schooled his expression, although he listened with greater attentiveness to his friend’s words.

At great length, Kvasir gave up, although his determination had to be admired. He clapped the prince on the shoulder in a hearty fashion that Loki found disgustingly reminiscent of Thor, tilting his emaciated frame in his seat, and then marched away down the corridor created by two book shelves. Loki appeared just as moodily silent as he had been when their one-sided discussion had begun. However, in an attempt to end the conversation on a cheerful note, Kvasir turned as he reached the main aisle of the library and called back to the prince – having forgotten his warning from Berghildr in his quest to convince Loki. “Well, I have business to be about, but if you want to talk – you know where to find me!” He winked knowingly.

He had stopped as he called, and waved back at the unsmiling Loki. However, as the words left his mouth, echoing down the tall bookshelves to the prince, and disturbing the peaceful silence of the building, a metal paperweight came whistling out of nowhere and struck Kvasir in the stomach with a dull thunk, winding him, followed by a barrage of reprimands that fell from the mouth of the unseen Berghildr.

“What do you think you are doing? SHOUTING?! IN A _LIBRARY_?!” She screeched. Her strident voice bellowed a great stream of imprecations at the unfortunate god that echoed up to the vaulted ceilings of the building.

“Madam, I do apologise,” Kvasir called in an attempt to placate the lady, raising his voice to make himself heard over her own bawling. His apology did little to appease her, however, instead drawing forth an even greater torrent of abuse and threats, as well as several more projectiles that were (as far as Loki could make out from his chair) more paperweights, an empty inkpot, several letter openers that were mercifully blunt, a great deal of wooden stamps, and finally a great swatch of leather cut to the proportions of the book cover it was supposed to replace (which struck Kvasir about the face).

As Kvasir rushed out, Loki could not help but crack a grin. Vaguely sympathetic as he was for Kvasir’s plight, it was nevertheless an amusing spectacle. The diversion was only brief, however, and Loki soon fell back into his previous torpor, languidly glancing at his still open book every now and then as the still fuming Berghildr appeared to collect the objects she had lobbed at Kvasir.

 

*

 

Winded, and not without bruises in unseen places, Kvasir made his way back to Fensalir with all possible speed. The thought that Berghildr might pursue him out of the library hastened his footsteps for quite some time, but once he had made it out of the gardens surrounding the entrance to the library, and saw that no one was in pursuit of him, Kvasir slowed, nursing his injuries – slight as they were.

By the time he had gained entrance to Frigg’s chambers once more he had regained most of his composure, and recounted what had passed between himself and Loki, omitting any mention of Berghildr and his ignominious exit from the library.

“While the young prince did not seem particularly enthused at my proposition, my lady, I feel that it is prudent for us to give him some time to think on the matter before attempting another approach. Denial is not an uncommon barrier, and it may take him some small time to come to his senses about the matter.” Frigg nodded.

“I see the sense of your words, Kvasir. However, before we let Loki alone, if this heartsickness that afflicts him _is_ to do with rejection from a lover, I think it best if someone his own age talks to him about it. I have chosen Thor – after all they are brothers, and Thor has some wide experience in dealing with women. I thank you for your efforts.” Frigg inclined her head, and Kvasir bowed, exiting as Loki’s burly older brother strode in.

“Mother; Fulla said you wished to speak with me.” Frigg nodded, and beckoned her son closer.

“What I wished to speak of to you is a matter of some delicacy, my son. It must be kept from your father, you understand?” Thor nodded seriously.

“What is it? Say the word and I shall complete any task you set me.” He replied. Frigg smiled.

 

Her explanation of the matter did not take long, and the tale that Loki could be pining for a lover gave Thor cause for a hearty guffaw.

“My brother! In love!” He laughed. “What a matter this is! And what is it that you would have me do? Speak to the lady? Divert Loki?”

“We are not sure if he is in love; but if he is, might you try to coax out the problem from him? Whether it is unrequited affection or rejected advances, or something else of a similar nature?” Frigg asked. Thor nodded stoutly.

“This very minute.” He replied, straightening his belt. “He may be stubborn as a mule, but on this matter I shall find him out. Where is he?”

“The library.” Thor’s brows furrowed deeply.

“Where is that?” He asked. Frigg sighed.

“Fulla will take you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to clarify; in my version of the Loki/Odin parent relationship, Odin has loathed Loki the entire time, but puts up with him in case he is of future use. However, he does the absolute bare minimum, and only just tolerates Loki's presence, and vents his dislike freely and openly.
> 
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	5. A New Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A timely distraction arrives in the form of Káta, and Fróði hatches a plan.

Kvasir strode along, wincing occasionally when the swinging movement of his stride twinged one of his bruises, set on going to visit the nymphs. He felt he had certainly earned their affection today, and was sorely in need of their gentle words and batting lashes to soothe his wounded pride.

He had barely set foot on the path that would take him down to the precinct, when he spotted two figures whose flowing dresses and height identified them instantly as nymphs. As they neared, he saw who they were. “Ah! Káta! Ölrún!” He hailed them jovially. “What a pleasant surprise! I was just coming down to the hall to see you two!”

“Oh really, Kvasir?” Replied Káta, her tone typically acidic, “and I suppose if any of the other nymphs had come along you would _never_ have said the same thing to them,” her voice was bitingly sarcastic. As they drew level with each other Káta’s companion, who was only slightly taller than herself, and a nymph in possession of merry blue eyes and long curly blonde hair, showed signs of wanting to stop and talk. Káta, however, marched onwards, her friend following with some reluctance, and passing the halted Kvasir. “Come _on_ , Rúna,” she muttered, grasping her friend’s hand and dragging her along in an attempt to leave behind the god. Kvasir, however, was not so easily shaken off, and quickly turned around and followed them up the path.

“Ölrún!” He exclaimed as soon as they were level. “I never knew your nickname was Rúna! It’s so pretty – and especially becoming for you. A pretty name for a pretty nymph.” Rúna blushed and nodded shyly.

“Thank you, Kvasir.” She murmured.

“Indeed,” continued to god, “it is one of my favourite names.”

“Really?” Enquired Rúna, her blue eyes wide in astonishment, her entire attention focussed on Kvasir, and ignoring her friend.

“Oh yes,” replied Kvasir, impressively, “I have always considered it to be one of the finest names I know.”

Káta sighed, heavily – rudely – and did her best to ignore her friend and Kvasir as they continued up the left fork in the path, and on to the library. She knew that Rúna had no interest in books, and that she had only come to see which gods she might meet along the way, but Káta had still thought – naively, perhaps – that Rúna had progressed past Kvasir’s smarm, smooth as it was.

With a little selfishness she wished that Rúna would keep the god’s attentions to herself, and that he would forget her presence. It was not to be, however, for Kvasir was determined to hold at least a single civil conversation with Káta, for in their entire association she had never yet acknowledged him with anything but scorn. The level of his solicitousness for both nymphs, but particularly Káta – as Kvasir knew that he had already secured Rúna’s interest – was such that he did not notice their destination, even as they entered it, and thoughts of Berghildr and her threats were far from his mind, his eyes fixed on the pretty faces of the nymphs.

 

“Let me carry your books for you,” Kvasir offered as Káta climbed up one of the ladders that leant against the bookshelves. His attentions had been unstinting for a good ten minutes, and Káta was determined to shake him off. She rolled her eyes at the books before for her, then smiled sweetly down as a plan began to unfold in her mind.

Unbeknownst to any of the party they had come to the aisle that was level with Loki’s alcove. He had tired of the book, and abandoned it on the table. At first the entry of the three had irritated him, for the constant hum of Kvasir’s unending conversation and compliments broke the peacefulness of his solitude. Soon however, Loki found his attention captured by the interactions of the group. It was clear that the women were nymphs, and that the taller blonde one would have worshipped the very ground Kvasir stood on in the tiresome manner that nymphs did. The shorter one, however, was different. That she disliked Kvasir’s attentions was plain, and curious enough – that she was so open in her dislike was even more so. Loki sat up slightly, a new light sparking in his eyes which were trained on the girl as she pulled herself up the ladder.

There was something pleasing about her form, and it was a few moments before Loki was aware that the corners of his mouth had lifted in a soft smile, quite unlike his usual smirks and grins. The moment he realised this, however, he wiped it away. After all, many women were pleasing to look at – it was when you looked in deeper, beneath the veneer of beauty that what they were truly like was revealed. Loki’s lip curled; no doubt this particular nymph was just picky – he knew some thought the Nine Worlds of themselves, with or without reason. He subsided into his chair with a sigh, although he could not help but continue to stare at the nymph as he one handedly groped about the table for his book. He opened it, not noticing that it was upside down, and flicked through a couple of pages, his eyes fluttering along the meaningless lines of writing, not taking any of it in, and darting up every now and then to watch the nymph with feigned nonchalance. It was not until she began to rain books down on the unfortunate Kvasir, that Loki decided that she had more depth to her character, or at least, more inventiveness, than the average nymph. Interest kindled in his bleak soulful eyes, the light of curiosity and amusement replacing the poisonous preoccupation and resentment that had claimed their tortured green depths of late.

Káta had chosen her shelf well. It was stocked with all sorts of books; ancient ones covered in dust with their bindings cracking, prized copies with their embossed covers studded with precious stones, and thick tomes so heavy she had to use both hands to pull them out. All within reach were removed and dropped, with some care, onto the steadily growing pile in the unfortunate Kvasir’s arms.

Loki narrowed his eyes, speculatively. He noticed the method in the nymph’s selection, random though it appeared, and noted too the sort of books that she was selecting. Amusing as Kvasir’s plight was, Loki could not help but think, nymph though she was, there was something finer to this particular female’s plan. As she slid easily down the ladder, her dress whipping and swirling about her, he wrapped himself in a fine net of invisibility and dematerialised, reappearing at the top of the shelf that the group stood at. His lofty vantage point allowed him a wide view of the area, and his hearing was acute enough to allow him to be party to their conversation.

“Káta, my dear,” called a familiar soft voice. Káta turned to see Fróði making his unhurried way towards her. She was good friends with the head-librarian, and even had garnered respect enough from Berghildr in her treatment of books to earn a kindly word or the occasional wink from her.

“Fróði!” She exclaimed, hugging him as soon as he was near enough.

Atop the bookshelf Loki frowned slightly. It was odd for a nymph to be engaged enough in books to be as cordial with Fróði as he was.

Kvasir and Rúna paused in their conversation to accord Fróði the respect and greeting he was due, which he returned before turning away to walk with Káta.

“We’ll just be on the other side.” Káta said over her shoulder, her companions nodding absently, too engrossed in each other to pay much heed to her words. Kvasir was particularly abstracted, his attention split three ways, focussing mainly on looking as casual and unburdened as possible even as he struggled with the weighty pile of books that were steadily lengthening his arms. Loki restrained a snort – the things people would do for women.

Once out of sight and earshot around the corner, Fróði treated Káta to a surprised and somewhat reproachful look. “If you were going to bring a man friend with you I would have at least thought you wouldn’t have brought Kvasir.” He began. “Besides everything else, he has not impressed Berghildr at all; she’s already thrown things at him you know – and that was barely an hour ago. If she spots him here again…” Fróði sucked in a breath, although his eyes were twinkling, “I wouldn’t like to be him.” A mischievous light glimmered in Káta’s golden eyes.

“Well, we can always hope,” she grinned, but the levity in her face died as she sighed, waving her hands quickly. “But it’s not like that. He just met us on the way and sort of…attached himself.” Káta frowned. “The fact that Rúna is perpetually making doe eyes at him doesn’t help discourage him, of course. She only came to see if she could meet any gods.” She muttered, a flush of embarrassment rising to her cheeks. She glanced up. “But that’s why I need your help; to get rid of Kvasir. I’m never going to get any peace to look at books with him hovering around…and what you said about Berghildr has given me something more of an idea.” Fróði’s eyes gleamed and his face cracked an evil grin.

“What am I to do?” He asked; Káta grinned.

“Distract him long enough for me to get Rúna onside, then for us to disappear, and once he realises, find Berghildr and set her on him. I’ll take care of everything else.” Fróði nodded and winked. He turned to make his way back with Káta to the others, when he suddenly paused, one hand upheld. His face was deeply furrowed with thought as he turned back to Káta, who, noticing the solemnity that lined his features, frowned herself, but in concern. “What is it, Fróði?” She asked.

Fróði frowned even more deeply, eventually he sighed. “I hesitate to involve you in this, but…” he sighed. “Something must be done,” he muttered to himself. Káta frowned again.

“Fróði?” She asked. Fróði looked up at her.

“I wonder if I might ask a favour of you – in return for this little trick, you might say?” He asked after a long moment. Káta’s face cleared.

“Of course – ask whatever you wish, even without repaying for your aid in this I would help anyway.” She replied sincerely. Fróði frowned pensively, then nodded, and smiled as he patted her on the shoulder.

“Good. Well – if you would, visit me within the week, and I will tell you what it is that I would ask of you.” Káta nodded, confused by his heavy seriousness, but perfectly willing to do any task he asked of her.

“Of course.” She replied, smiling.

As Fróði and the nymph rejoined the other two, Loki rolled over onto his back for a moment, the light of interest gleaming in his eyes, his troubles momentarily forgotten. Fróði’s voice drifted up to him, engaging a reluctant Kvasir in discussion.

“Rúna!” Exclaimed the over bright voice of the nymph Fróði had called Káta, “you simply _must_ see this book on the other side!”

Loki rolled back onto his chest and peered over the edge in time to see Káta seize her friend by the arm and drag her around the corner where they stood with their heads close together.

“Look, Rúna. I know you don’t want to spend time in the library, but I _do_ , so if you do this for me, you can go and spend time with Kvasir.” Káta began, clasping her friend’s hands in her own. Rúna nodded, grinning as she sensed one of her friend’s tricks; she was not as self-obsessed as many of the other nymphs, and was essentially very kind, although she enjoyed a good laugh. Káta smiled. “Good. I need you to stand half in the doors to the library. When you see Kvasir coming; go outside, and back to the hall – he’ll follow you. But make sure he sees your dress going out the door.”

“All right.” Rúna slipped away down the main aisle of the library, and stood in the half open door, her eyes on the corner that Kvasir would come around.

Loki watched as Káta crept back along the bookshelf until she had reached the opposite end. Cautiously she peeped around the corner. Kvasir was standing, his legs buckling slightly, with his back to her. She waved her hand at Fróði, and nodded her head once. He gave her the slightest of winks, and she whipped back around the corner.

“I believe we have mislaid your companions,” Fróði began casually, and together he and Kvasir checked the aisle that Rúna and Káta had ostensibly gone into, only to discover it was empty.

“By Odin, where have they gone?” Exclaimed Kvasir. Atop the shelf, Loki restrained a snicker.

“Perhaps they have left and did not wish to disturb us,” suggested Fróði innocently, even as he slipped off to find his wife, displaying a remarkable level of agility and light-footedness for one so old. The disappearance of the head-librarian went unnoticed by Kvasir, for he had shuffled out into the main corridor of the library, and just caught a glimpse of Rúna’s skirts whipping out the door.

With a strangled cry he rushed towards the door, his arms still full of books, although some few toppled from the pile in his hurry, thudding to the floor. Loki watched, his chin on his crossed arms, grinning as Berghildr came marching along. Kvasir, as yet unaware of the danger he was in, remained standing just beyond the open door of the library, calling after Rúna, and presumably Káta.

Berghildr was already in a stormy mood from the sight of the abandoned books on the floor, some with their covers open and pages bent. It was not until she caught sight of Kvasir standing outside, his arms full of books she knew he had not loaned out, as well as a great many that were too precious or delicate to leave the protection of the library, that she became truly furious.

With a roar, she charged, falling upon the unfortunate god and snatching the books from him. Kvasir’s feelings were written across his face, and even as he attempted an apology Berghildr brutally cuffed him down the steps with an echoing warning not to come back again.

Atop his bookshelf, Loki surveyed the scene with a grin, disappearing as he re-cloaked himself in invisibility, a trick of his own forming in his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Káta 's friend, Ölrún - or Rúna, is another OC. Her name means 'ale' or 'secret, hidden knowledge' or 'she who possesses hidden knowledge'
> 
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	6. Unexpected Surprises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki tries a trick, but finds himself back-footed by a nasty surprise, and for once, is actually thankful to Thor (who has completely the wrong end of the stick). Káta is surprised in more ways than one.

Káta sighed with relief as Berghildr slammed the doors shut, having snuck out and along the bookshelf in time to see Kvasir’s ignominious ejection. Alone at last. Peace at last. She grinned to herself as she backed along the bookshelf, her fingers trailing along the leather bound spines, and could help but let out a small giggle of triumph.

“I saw what you did,” a low silky voice murmured softly right by her ear, quiet and teasingly intimate, the words coming out on a warm breath that ruffled the soft baby curls of hair about her temple, and trailed across the skin of her cheek. The words, layered with the faintest edge of menace, dropped into the air just as she backed into something tall and solid, a delectable shudder trailing up her spine as she did so for the voice was like nothing she had ever heard before.

Loki had chosen his moment well; not speaking until the back of the cheerfully unaware nymph was a hairsbreadth from touching his still invisible chest, bending his neck a little so his mouth was as close as possible to her ear without touching her.

At the sound and touch Káta’s entire body leapt, her arms flying to instinctively cross her chest as she spun round, a soft shriek of fright forming in her throat. Her hair almost whipped Loki across the face as she turned, and the speed of her movement was such that she lost balance slightly, tilting across the shadow of a gap between them and into his chest, which was only just becoming visible.

“Oh, no, no, no, no, no.” Loki murmured reprovingly, a wicked glint in his eyes, waving a single finger as he saw the beginnings of a scream in the nymph’s electrified expression. Almost of their own accord, his long fingered hands grasped her firmly, but not painfully, about her upper arms, at once steadying her, and keeping her clamped against his chest. Emaciated as he was, he still had the strength of a god in his limbs.

Káta gulped soundlessly, staring up into the face of the tall, hollow cheeked god that she was pressed against, her wide startled eyes locked on his mesmerising green ones. She could feel her heart beating wildly against her hand and arm from the surprise he had given her, her breathing erratic and soundlessly gasping. Even though there was nothing to be afraid of, it was a struggle to breathe deeply and calmly, and her pulse flickered in her throat, her heart continuing to beat at a relentless uneven pace though she did not know why.

Loki gave her a few moments for the panic in her eyes to settle – he wasn’t going to return her voice to her if all she would do was scream –, studying her all the while. She kept her composure remarkably well, considering the circumstances; alarm filled her eyes for only a few moments before measured deep breathing took over, her chest rising and falling rhythmically between them. She had very unusual eyes; beautifully remarkable. To have called them yellow would have not done them justice; nor even amber – they were _gold_ ; a beautiful gentle shade of liquid gold, pale on the surface but richer beneath, with a star or flower-like pattern around the pupil. He had never seen anything like them.

It was not until Loki realised that he was staring into her eyes, intensely transfixed, and she back into his, her expression both overwhelmed and enthralled, that he remembered himself and their surroundings, and waved his hand, lifting his spell and returning her voice. Curiously, she still made no sound, save for the soft outward sigh of her breathing.

Káta felt the circumstances to be quite beyond her, her arms lying limply against her chest; held there by the young god’s chest, which was too close for her to drop them, had she thought to. It was an unusual feeling, for she was normally very self-possessed. She thought that such an abrupt deprivation of control in a situation would have angered her – for she knew that it was this young haggard god who had stirred up these feelings and caused this situation, and normally would have already dealt him a sharp retort –, but instead there was something in her heart and head that was thrilling at the complete release of supervision – as if, in a bout of impetuousness, she had thrown all to the winds; she felt unburdened and recklessly free because of it. It was a heady feeling. It made her want to run and jump and sing and have furious fights with people and play tricks on strangers; all at once; all at the same time.

Sternly, however, she tamped down on the exhilaration that was rushing through her veins, and fought to regain control of her scattered faculties. In an attempt to focus her blankly drifting mind, she began to study the young god’s wasted face in earnest, for they were barely inches apart. His skin would have been pale and fine, like new milk, save for an unhealthy pallor that she knew to be from a lack of sleep and food – as indicated by the extreme gauntness of his face, and the maroon smudges around his eyes. For all this, however, his skin was smoothly even, save for a set of deeply recessed frown lines across his brow which were far stronger than they ought to have been, given his age. His eyes were alive with a breath-taking exuberance below expressive eyebrows, and above cheekbones that appeared sculpted in a likeness of a smoothly-edged sharp cliff face, drastically accentuated by his thinness. He had a longish straight nose, and a slim lipped mouth that looked like it would have a generous smile, although the smile lines about it were peculiar; some correct and genuine, others sad and uneasy. There was something in his expression that was hungry, almost unconsciously; an intense, burning desire in his starved eyes that went beyond the need for sustenance. It was an expression that at once confused and exhilarated Káta. As her eyes swept down, taking in the rest of his lissomly pinched figure and the colours of his sagging garments, realisation of his identity began to dawn upon her. It took a few moments before exactly who the god before her was struck her freezing blast of recognition.

Loki saw with amusement the recognition that flashed into her eyes, and splashed across her face, and the shock and confusion that quickly followed, although he was surprised to see a complete lack of fear or revulsion.

“Prince Loki?!” She gasped, still not quite sure whether the wasted young man before her was indeed the god she thought him to be. They continued to stare at one another, Loki’s eyes glinting mischievously. “You should eat and sleep, you know.” The words slipped out of her mouth before she had a chance to stop herself. Horrified with herself, Káta gazed into Loki’s eyes, waiting for a reprimand. His eyes lost none of their previous sparkle, but a slight frown twitched his brows before he cocked a surprised and slightly expectant eyebrow. Káta knew what the eyebrow meant – how could she forget proper etiquette, today of all days? After all, one did not simply stare at the major gods like a gaping idiot, nor tell them what to do – even if they were as thin as a rake and looked half dead from starvation – and particularly _not_ after walking into them. Káta felt her face flush. “I – forgive me.” She attempted to fall a step back, but failed to do so due to the grasp of his hands.

With a little surprise and awkwardness they both looked down at the intimate locking of their bodies, having temporarily forgotten their proximity in their mutual examination of one another. Loki released the grip of his hands, looking slightly unmanned, as though he hadn’t realised what they had been doing, and they fell apart, a slight gasp escaping both of them. A roseate blush flooded the apples of Káta’s cheeks as she became suddenly aware of every inch of her body that had been in contact with his, and she was immensely glad that they had not been discovered in such a…well, what could have been considered an exceedingly intimate embrace between lovers – which they most certainly weren’t. She let her arms fall to her sides as she curtseyed, dipping her head, glad that he couldn’t see her thoughts.

“My Prince.” She murmured, coming out of the curtsey and keeping her eyes lowered to the floor, the dusky blush of mortification still warming her cheeks. She could still feel the cold imprint of his hands and fingers about her arms, though there was no mark. His skin was surprisingly cool on the surface, and the outline of where he had held her tingled. “I – I…didn’t notice you; my apologies.”

The corner of Loki’s mouth lifted in a grin. His own surprise at finding his hands keeping her close to him was as great as her own had been, greater in fact, save he was a master of deception and easily shelved and veiled the emotion. The turmoil and confusion of her mind was evident, for her brows were drawn together in a slight frown, her lips somehow at once pursed and pressed together, and her stunning eyes, when they surreptitiously darted a glance at him, preoccupied. It was such a sweet expression that Loki merely stared. It was not until the blush began to fade from her cheeks and she began to stare with greater boldness up into his eyes, her own questioning, that he came to himself once more.

“I am friends with Kvasir,” he said, his voice hard, gazing down at her, his eyes narrowed in speculation. “How would it be if I told him of your trick on him?”

Loki had expected her be shocked and upset, perhaps even to entreat him not to. What he received was an expression of shock, yes, but along with it finely leashed anger and the faintest hint of betrayal. “Well I would not think you to be as sporting as I might have expected.” She replied somewhat haughtily, no longer shy in her manner, but unflinchingly meeting his gaze. It was a novel experience, for Loki was used to people avoiding eye contact with him at all costs, and when their eyes _did_ meet, looking as terrified as a mouse before a hawk; he restrained a grin – she was turning out to be a great deal more than he had ever hoped for. He noticed too that, short as she was, she was still tall enough that his greater height was not such a belittlement as it would be with most goddesses, and they had always seemed to feel his superior height keenly; this nymph, however, appeared to disregard it entirely as she gazed fiercely up at him. “As God of Mischief I would have expected you to enjoy a trick; not ruin it.” She seemed then to remember that she was addressing one of the Princes of Asgard, and lowered her defiant eyes, although she did not seem to regret her bold words from the set of her chin. “But,” she said, addressing his shoes, “you must do as you see fit…my prince.” The pause was exquisitely timed; at once rude and insinuating, and Loki could read the struggle in her tone, knowing just how hard it had been for her to grind out the courtesy, even if she had managed to make it an insult.

Loki restrained a laugh with difficulty, although he could not help but grin; she grew more interesting and unusual by the second. She certainly was made of something different to most people he came across. Not afraid of him in the slightest; nor repelled either. Daring to speak her opinion to a prince; showing her open disapproval his manner and actions, and even going so far as to comment unfavourably on his appearance and tell him what he ought to do. She had energy, and a sharp bite; perhaps something of a temper, too – wit, certainly, and a daring nature. The tricks they could play together were boundless, and he himself was very close to abandoning the trick he was playing on her.

“You would dictate my actions, would you?” He asked, an impish sparkle in his eye although his voice remained sternly questioning and aloof through a severe amount of control.

Káta found herself beginning to dislike Loki greatly. To be sure, at first, there had been something about him – something in the dulcet sound of his voice, the aesthetic planes of his hollow angular face (for all its gauntness), the reassuring firmness of his body where it had pressed against hers (which had seemed to remain, for all the evident loss of flesh), a faint glimmer of, dare she think it, vulnerability in his enthralling eyes, for all their challenging arrogance – but now he was just being unpleasant. If he wanted to twist her arm, fine; but she wasn’t going to beg him to be lenient – she wasn’t going to give him any sport. Her anger at his presumption that he could manipulate her so easily for his own ends, whatever they might be, infuriated her; she had kept a stern control of her anger up until then, but there was something maddening about the assured way that he spoke that cracked her control like nothing else had. Prince or no prince, his ego and arrogance needed deflating.

Loki noticed the fiery spark that had entered her eyes, downcast as they were, and licked his lips in anticipation of the fury she was about to release. Káta slowly tilted her head up and gazed directly into Loki’s face, her own candid and fearless.

“Given that you behave more like a bully than a prince, yes.” She replied, tossing her hair over one shoulder with a furious flick of her head, and staring challengingly up at him. “Tell Kvasir I played a trick on him; do what you want! I’ve done it before – he won’t care; and even if he does, maybe you’ll be doing me a good turn, and he’ll leave me alone – so much the better for me!” Her anger poured out of her in a loquacious torrent, unchecked by thought or reason. Loki enjoyed it; fuelled by anger as she was, she unwittingly revealed a great deal of inner truths about herself. “I never asked him to follow me! So have your fun; taunt me, do as you please! But don’t expect me to whimper and beg you to leave me alone – I’m not some pathetic female that you’re used to manipulating, so don’t think for one _second_ that I’m not going to fight you back; I’m not afraid of you.” She let out an angry huff of air, frowning deeply at Loki with an expression that he found unsettlingly piercing. “Maybe it’s because you’re a prince,” she continued, though there was less anger in her tone now, and a good deal more frowning earnestness, “you’re used to getting things your way – of doing whatever you please without ramifications; without being reprimanded – but that doesn’t mean it’s right.” Her words had struck a nerve, Káta could tell. There again was that flash of pain – and something else, something much more complex; the origins of that pain. She had cracked of the armour of arrogance that shielded his eyes, revealing a chink of the truth in their shifting green depths; and she paused, caught up by the brief glint of true emotion. It appealed to her. For all her fierce vivacity and sharp tongue, Káta had a very gentle heart, and she could see the bruised feelings that her words had surfaced in Loki’s eyes. She blinked, frowning as the barriers shifted and closed ranks once more, a wave of genuine anger flooding his face. It was a terrible expression, forbidding, and one that would have frightened a god of lesser courage, let alone a nymph.

Loki, unaware that the pain Káta’s words had dredged up from the inner depths of his soul had shown in his eyes, stared at her with a new fury. What did she know of his life? What did she know of the look of loathing tinged disappointment that Odin always reserved just for him? Getting things his own way?! Never being reprimanded?! Such an occasion would certainly be one to be remembered if it had ever happened. He snorted slightly. “You know _nothing_.” The soft, hating words had escaped his mouth before he had even decided to say them. Loki’s eyes turned inward, away from the nymph before him, his thoughts returning to the wounded core of his soul, nursing his injuries, forgetting that he was not alone.

Káta’s eyes widened at the words. She was not sure whether they were really meant for her, or whether the new preoccupation that had seated itself in Loki’s face had led to an unintended opening of his guarded inner soul; for she _was_ sure that he was hiding something – harbouring some long held grievance. There was something about his expression at times, a flicker of earnestness that was frightening to behold, for in those glimpses she saw a terrible depth of festering pain, and, much as she wished it was not true, they held an unequivocal truth – something in them resonated with something inside her heart, and she knew that in those moments she had been granted a privileged glimpse through the windows of Loki’s eyes into his soul. It was a frightening sight, what she had seen, for it appeared that beneath his arrogant callous exterior there was a small child in torment; trapped in the darkness of things she did not know – for what she had seen of his soul was a desolate wasteland of grief and bitterness, barren of any bright spark of hope or joy, grey and ravaged – eaten up with confusion and pain. She frowned, curiously gazing up into Loki’s face, studying it carefully. She saw the change in his eyes; the sudden distance in them, and again, the incredible vulnerability of a punished child that has lost its way. Could it be that his confident self-assured exterior, the ego and the self-importance, were all a façade? A cleverly constructed protection from whatever it was that had created the cheerless desolation that lay inside his heart?

“And yet…” Káta’s soft voice broke through the mists of Loki’s troubles like the first beam of morning sunlight slicing through a valley shrouded in shadows; gentle and without judgement. It drew him out like a kindly hand leading the way out of darkness. He looked down into her eyes, his own unguarded and soulful, capturing her kind warm gaze with an almost desperate force. “There’s something in your eyes,” she murmured gently, shedding her awareness of the situation in her entrancement with his eyes and what they contained, her voice musing, “when you don’t think anyone is looking, or when you are caught off guard and hurt – just before the anger. A breaking of your armour; and the merest glimmer of what you really feel.” Loki’s eyes widened in astonishment; no one had ever broken through his defences before – he had had years of honing them until they formed an impenetrable shield; not only his eyes, but his expressions and body language – none of his family had ever been able to read him correctly once he had erected such protection about himself, and yet this nymph had noticed when his guard slipped – she had noticed when he hadn’t.

“What do you see?” He asked, despite himself, his voice the faintest trembling whisper.

Káta frowned, her eyes at once pensive and pitying. “I see your pain…betrayal…suffering…neglect…confusion…and a burning desire to be recognised…and,” she paused, a trace of confused compassion lighting her remarkable eyes before she glanced away, breaking the fierce hold Loki’s eyes had held on hers. He faltered, shocked by her abrupt stop and burning with a fierce desire to see again the unconditional compassion that had glimmered in her eyes that he had never seen directed at him in his life until that moment.

“And?” He asked, his voice urgent, his hands finding her arms once more and grasping them. Káta remained gazing at the floor between them for a few long moments. When at last she looked back up there was an expression in her eyes that was almost apologetic.

“I see your hate – for others, and…for yourself.” She continued to hold his gaze, her eyes fixed on his own, long after he had broken it. At her words he had released his grip on her, as if repelled.

The walls he had so carefully constructed to protect himself from being read; it was as if they had never existed. Her gaze pierced the heart of his soul, drawing forth all that he kept there, and those few things that he had tried to hide from himself by burying them in the deepest and darkest recesses of his wounded spirit. He felt laid bare, vulnerable; and was shocked by it.

Loki let out a laugh. It was unusually harsh, raked over the bared wreck of his soul, but as disdainfully amused as it had ever been when summoned from the depths of his hurt – a form of protection that had often shielded him well in the past, in those few moments when he had been most helpless, and closest to losing the fierce control he maintained over himself when his whole being threatened to shatter. “How _amusing_.” He said condescendingly, quickly regaining his composure.

The colour drained from Káta’s face, her expression frozen in a mask of shock and hurt. “What do you mean?” She asked, the stunned words falling from numb lips.

“That you thought you could read me; let me tell you – no one has ever done that, my dear.” As the composure drained out of Káta, Loki’s swelled, masking his shock. The surprise that she had given him was unpleasant, and his roiling emotions came out in the form of the protective default that had been set by Odin’s undue browbeating of Loki when he was only a child; scathing with an intent to distress.

The first time Fróði had witnessed the reaction was when the Thor and Loki had been only young boys, and he had been asked to tutor them about the library at Frigg’s request. Thor had held no inclination for such learning, although Loki had been fascinated. Fróði had accompanied them to their father that afternoon, and although Loki had given a much more detailed and interested report than his brother, Odin had ignored it, instead reprimanding him for mistakes he had made earlier in the day when on the training field. Loki had borne the barrage of criticism with a great deal more stoicism and acceptance than a child of forty eight could be expected to display, and afterwards Fróði had attempted to comfort him, offering a kindly word, concerned at the young prince’s unresponsiveness. Loki, however, had turned on him, releasing a pent up torrent of confused anger in a manner that Fróði ever after likened to that of a wounded animal lashing out at the hand that tried to help it. Loki had, of course, made a tearful amends afterwards, not that Fróði had at all blamed him for the outburst; the habit, however, had been set.

Káta’s face crumpled with injury and insult. How was it possible that the man that now stood before her, so coolly insulting her without a thought for what his words were doing to her – seeming to take pleasure from the distress that he was causing her – was the same one that had gazed at her with such desperate vulnerability mere moments before that she had felt she had no choice but to speak the truth of what she had seen in his deepest soul? When she had spoken with the only thought of helping him, perhaps, stupidly, with the thought of trying to rescue him from the frightening abyss that she had seen within him, and yet he now threw her words back in her face. “I am _not_ your ‘dear’.” She spat. Káta quickly cast off the hurt, shelving it for a later time when she was alone; anger came to her aid. This was Loki she was talking to. _Loki_. The Trickster God; the God of Lies; all of this had been a lie – a sham. He was doing what he did best, what everyone said he did; he was just out to hurt as many people as possible. He had some sort of twisted sadistic form of humour. He just wanted to see how much he could hurt people. A supreme actor; that was for sure – he had actually made her believe that there was something else to him, something beyond the arrogance and ego, something beyond the trickery that his reputation was formed upon – something vulnerable and wounded that needed her help; how could she be so stupid as to believe him!

Loki saw, not without some regret, the patchwork of emotions that flitted across Káta’s face. She was someone he wanted to know; someone he felt he could talk to in the way he talked to Fróði; someone who he wanted to know what he was _really_ like, who he _really_ was – not the mask he had to keep on for others. But he had hurt her, he could see, and he had no idea of how he could make amends – to apologise went so firmly against the grain that it did not even occur to him. She was withdrawing from him; the earnest caring that she had revealed, that tasted so sweet and that he so craved, was hidden behind her angry eyes, and the defiant tilt of her chin.

There was nothing for him to do but carry on in the same manner; he knew that if his temperament changed again she would think it was all a ploy. “Oh, I wouldn’t be too sure about that.” He replied, smirking even as he loathed the words that left his mouth.

“Well I _am_ ; and I will never – _never_ – be your ‘dear’.” Káta was livid. She would have liked nothing better than to hit him, but knew that such a paltry attempt would only make him laugh at her even more. She let her loathing for him infuse her expression and words. “You know, I thought there was something more to you – some goodness, perhaps –; but I can see that I was wrong. You’re just as manipulative as any of them. You’re probably the worst of the whole bunch!” She continued on, hardly aware of what she was saying in her anger – not noticing that she had begun to talk about things that troubled her, that he could not possibly be aware of. “At least the others actually have motives – petty ones, yes, but even spiteful jealousy is better than hurting people for the pleasure of it! That’s just _evil_. Can’t you see what you are?” She glared at him furiously, her eyes blazing with hurt and rage.

The flash of hate that coloured her features struck Loki to the core, the undisguised venom of her tone was like a swipe across the face, and but for the stern control he was exerting over himself he would have sagged against the bookcase to his left at such a blow.

“Well,” he said with a blasé tilt of the head, although unable to muster a smirk, “I _am_ the god of mischief, you know.”

Káta’s eyes narrowed and she opened her mouth to make an angry retort, but was interrupted by a booming shout.

“Loki! By the Nine Worlds, I’ve found you at last! I’ve been wandering around this blasted library for Odin knows how long trying to find you!” At the sound of Thor’s voice, Loki froze, his mouth drawn in a silent snarl, rolling his eyes before he moved away from the still furious, if bemused, Káta to peer around the end of the shelf they were standing at to see his brother walking up the next aisle towards him, arms open.

Thor had, indeed, spent a great deal of his time wandering around the library, becoming lost so many times that he no longer remembered where the exit was. It was quite by chance that he spotted the corner of his brother’s green cloak curving around the corner of a bookshelf, and had called out in his joy at finding him.

The brother’s meeting was stalled, however, by the appearance of a livid Berghildr behind Thor. At the sound of her furious voice Thor turned a bemused countenance upon her, and listened for a few moments as she ranted on about the prohibition of shouting in the library, regardless of his status, and didn’t he know the rules, and what was it with all the gods deciding to come into the library and shout, and wouldn’t he see if she didn’t speak to the Allfather about it. Thor’s puzzlement was of a short duration and a slight frown came to his face as Berghildr carried on.

When at last it appeared that she had no intention of stopping, Thor – who had had quite enough shouting – bellowed back, “CEASE THIS, WOMAN – OR WOULD YOU KNOW WHAT SHOUTING IS REALLY LIKE?!” The force of his voice was such that the entire library reverberated with its echo, and the very shelves seemed to tremble.

There was a resounding silence. For once, it appeared that Berghildr had met her match, and, sour faced, she marched away with as much dignity as she could muster. Thor turned back to his wide-eyed brother, cracked his neck, and marched up to him, smiling broadly once more; evidently very pleased with himself.

He rounded the end of the bookcase and clapped his brother jovially on the back with a hearty hand, not noticing the presence of Káta. Loki, unprepared for his brother’s welcome, was sent sprawling bodily into the equally surprised Káta. Instinctively, he flung his arms about her, enclosing her in their protective cage as they fell, and taking the brunt of the fall, rather painfully, on one elbow. They lay on the floor for a moment, hopelessly entangled. Káta had automatically grasped the front of Loki’s clothing as they fell, her previous fury temporarily obliterated on a wave of shock and anxiety, unable to restrain a squeak of nervous surprise and fear. Loki couldn’t help but give her a roguish grin, encased as she was in his arms and clinging to him.

The moment they realised their position – for Loki was lying in a rather compromising manner over Káta –, they quickly untangled themselves with some awkwardness, pulled to their feet by the helpful, if forceful, hands of Thor.

“My apologies, lady,” Thor said with a slight bow once all three were on their feet once more, his blue eyes twinkling as they moved between Káta and his brother – thoughts of his mission foremost in his mind –, “and to you too, brother; I did not realise I was interrupting something.”

Thor’s sudden bout of impeccable manners was a distinct shock to Loki, but he could not help it as his grin widened even more at his brother’s words, for once pleased with him. Káta’s previous fury, however, as well as a little mortification, returned to her face, and her eyes widened with indignant shock at Thor’s assumption. She dropped a short curtsey, “I assure you, you most certainly were _not_ interrupting anything, my prince,” she replied with as much civility as she could muster, ignoring Loki’s infuriatingly gleeful expression. She bowed once more, then turned on her heel and left with as much speed as she could whilst still maintaining her dignity.

Thor and Loki watched her leave, their faces both amused – although for quite different reasons, and Loki’s a little speculative.

As Thor marched Loki out of the library (putting Káta’s hasty departure down to feminine coyness) commenting on how weedy he was looking, Loki found himself thinking that Kvasir was actually right, and that perhaps a visit to the nymphs might be all right after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHOOOOHOOOOOOOOOO!!!  
> THEY FINALLY MEET!!  
> Thor's timing could possibly be heaven sent (pardon the pun)...at least to save Loki from being verbally shredded ;P
> 
> Also, if you like this story, or any of my other ones, and you want access to sneak previews on chapters that I'm working on, Like my Facebook page, or Follow my Twitter :)  
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	7. The Masks of an Actor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Káta nurses the wounds her meeting with Loki inflicted, and wishes herself away back home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little warning - there is a BUTT load of world building in this chapter...I got a little too carried away with my mental image of Asgard... Hopefully it's not too confusing.

Káta stormed back to Mærsalr in a frightful temper. Her face was dark, and none who came across her path dared look at her, let alone speak to her. She flung up the eight staircases to her room, brushing aside the other nymphs that were at first indignant, and then fearful when confronted with her forbidding expression. When at last she was in her room, and had slammed the door behind her, she threw herself onto her bed, clasping a pillow to her chest, her hands gripping it tightly. It was soothingly dark and wonderfully cool; for the wooden shutters over her windows were drawn to, the drapes let down to cover them, and she had become unpleasantly warm in her anger and haste, errant strands and wisps of her hair clinging to her damp forehead.

She was too angry to be worried that her behaviour towards Loki, prince as he was – warranted or not – might result in serious ramifications for herself. He had behaved in an abominable manner; teasing and tormenting her with no reason save his own amusement at her discomfort and hurt. _What sort of person was so messed up that they enjoyed hurting others, and watching them suffer?_ Káta wondered, sickened. _How did they even end up like that, for Odin’s sake?!_ To go to the extent of drawing their victim’s sympathies out with a false persona, and then cruelly smash the person their victim had felt sorry for, and reveal a person so radically different that it seemed impossible that the two – even if one was a fake – could exist in a single body. _Who_ did _that?!_ And she had _fallen_ for it!

Káta muttered furiously to herself, her words muffled into the pillow, cursing Loki and cursing her own folly. She snorted, her fingers biting into the pillow. She hated the fact that he had actually taken her in; had been such a good actor that he could make even his _eyes_ – those incredibly green eyes, _No_ , Káta told herself furiously, thumping the pillow, _don’t think about that. Don’t think about how honestly sad and alone they looked. Don’t think about the hurt that seemed so real in them. Don’t think about how wonderful they would look if he had just one genuine smile. Just don’t._ She grasped her anger once more, determined not to let her mind dwell on the side of Loki, false as she was sure it was, that wrung her heart for its compassion. She had been so _sure_ that what she had seen was the truth; a well hidden, deep and unsettling truth that was chilling to behold, and yet the truth all the same. It had stilled her heart, seeing the wounds ( _False wounds, remember Káta,_ she told herself sternly, _false wounds…and yet wounds all the same_ , the persistent little voice reminded her) that Loki had hidden – not only away from others, she felt, but also from himself.

Káta shook her head angrily. _Don’t think about that!_ She thought crossly. _Don’t let him get to you again! It’s all just lies and tricks. He’s an expert at this; don’t fall for it again, you silly fool! Don’t think that you’re supposed to help people! Don’t think you can mother everyone out there! He saw what you’re like and he played on it! It’s your own silly fault for being this way._

She hated him for it. That he had been able to see how she was, and use it against her in a way that tore her apart and dealt a heavy blow to her heart. She was sure he had seen it; the fact that all her life she had an unrestrainable compunction to help those that seemed lost or sad, and the pity that filled her when she saw them in such desperate conditions. It had come out, uncontrollably, when she had first spoken to him; the extremity of his thinness – the sickness that radiated from his very being – had drawn verbal aid from her, and had he not been a god and Prince of Asgard she would have insisted that he ate while she watched him, and stayed by his side until he slept. _Don’t be stupid, Káta – that was probably a trick as well; some part of his magic. Everyone says he can change his form; he was just leading you on, you senseless idiot._ She recoiled from the thought; she had thought he had opened himself to her, and in return she had opened herself to him. The extremity of his vulnerability had gutted her, and she had let down her own barriers in a manner of trust and honesty that she might help him; and it had all just been a ploy. It had been quite a while since she had had cause to do so, for in living at Mærsalr she had met fewer people that needed emotional untangling, and had soon learned that even when some of the nymphs were afflicted in such a manner, it was better to leave them alone.

She had been burned countless times in her first year or so, when she had taken pity on those nymphs that needed it, and helped them as best she could, only to be repaid with ingratitude and insults once they were restored to their former vindictive brilliance. It had been hard, curbing her natural inclination to help, having to put up with watching and worrying, and not doing anything. It had been harder still to protect herself from them, shaping her wit and keen intelligence into barriers that she had never had need for in all her prior decades, for although she had learned playful mischief as a child, it had been in innocence. Káta had been wholly unspoiled until she was finally thrust out from the sanctuary of her mother’s protected orchards, and learning the ways of the world and others had been a rough and fast journey which she had not always escaped from unscathed; there had been a great deal for her to catch up on and in very little time. At times her resolve had crumbled, and unable to harden her heart she had helped the stricken nymphs, but the result had always been the same – not that she had expected it to be any different; the nymphs were unchangeable in their manner and behaviour – but she could never help but hope, just for a few moments, that they might at least be in some way kinder, or better. Loki had been the first person she had tried to help in a long time; and now this – it was even worse than with the nymphs. She still hadn’t learned, and she had no one to blame for the result but herself. Tempting as it was to blame Loki, she knew that it had been his apparent complexity that had drawn her out; he had appeared as unlike the nymphs as she was. But she had been wrong. It was merely a mask; a brilliant one, but a mask all the same.

Loki had been a consummate actor, she decided. Pretend to be arrogant at first, and then vulnerable, and then reveal the heart-shattering truth of his character. Who would think up such a thing, let alone do it? Káta pummelled her pillow, trying to siphon off some of the fury that bubbled inside her. It frustrated her that she hadn’t been able to tell that he was acting. Usually she found reading people easy, discerning their motives and thoughts was relatively simple. But Loki had been complex; even beyond the many veneers of his acting – there was something deeper that she felt (although she was no longer sure) couldn’t be feigned; a confused jumble of competing emotions and thoughts and values that were often incompatible. His thoughts had been discordant. It had made her momentarily uneasy, but she had brushed it off, sure that she was merely out of practice, given the simplicity of the company she now kept – for often knowing one nymph’s mind meant knowing all.

What was she thinking? She was trying to make excuses for him again; trying to read him when already she had got so much wrong! Probably, this confusion was another layer to his acting; it had to be. What a glorious sham! And yet she _should_ have expected it; he was the God of Mischief! The Trickster God! The God of _Lies_! How could she have been such a stupid fool to think that he, a god, might actually have _troubles_? Troubles that she thought she had been _privileged_ to see and notice, troubles that she thought she could have helped him with. Gods _didn’t_ have troubles, not major ones; they had feuds and disagreements to be sure, but they didn’t get emotionally knotted – it just didn’t happen; why should it, after all? They were _Gods_. Káta hit her palm against her forehead repeatedly, furious with herself as much as Loki, trying to knock some sense into her head, and to knock out the silly notions that she had felt. She was just a romantic, mothering idiot; imagining things. She felt like kicking herself. Caught up in an unpleasant whirlpool of emotions, she thrust her face into her pillow and screamed. Eventually, her voice died away, hoarse and ragged, and an overwhelming sense of self-pity took over, washing out her anger, and settling in her heart instead.

Why had her mother thought to send her here? The nymphs were, by and large, unpleasant; the gods that visited assumed that she was like all the other nymphs and treated her accordingly; and now this encounter with Loki. What was she supposed to learn here? What could she possibly achieve? She was being forced to pretend that she was something that she wasn’t. She was being restricted on all sides; the freedom that she had become accustomed to before stripped of her. She could no longer be herself. She could no longer do what her heart drove her to do. She felt stifled and withered, and wanted nothing more than to return to her mother’s orchards.

Her face still buried in the pillow, she cried, her sobs muffled.

Loki had nothing to do with these feelings. It was the deprivation of that which she had held dearest, and the replacement of it with something that was so heartbreakingly inadequate; something that shattered her previous reality with all the callousness of lightning striking an oak that was thousands of years old and setting it alight. Until several years previous, Káta had lived in her mother’s orchards. Her mother was the goddess Iðunn; keeper of the youth rejuvenating golden apples that the gods and goddesses ate when they began to age. Her apple orchards were far from the city of Asgard, backed and flanked with forest that the apple trees gave way to, and were maze-like; easy to get lost in, and hard to get out of if you didn’t know the way. Somewhere in the centre of the sprawling plantation, protected by their hundreds of ordinary fellows, was a special and hallowed grove of the rare trees on which pale gold apples grew. There, Káta had grown up; a child of the woods and glades, instinctively one with the trees that grew about her, and never falling prey to their protective changeability. Paths frequently changed of their own accord, and wanderers – accidental or otherwise – were fated to wait until Iðunn, her daughter or one of the apple tree’s dryads found them and led them out.

Káta knew little of her father, for he had died before she was born, and her mother said only that she ought to be proud to be his daughter, and that it was in her own best interests not to know his identity, save that he was a dryad of immense power. Content with this information, although forever nigglingly curious, Káta had lived as she pleased; unconcerned at her mother’s prolonged absences, learning what her mother taught her when she was about, bathing in the chirruping brook that wound its ever changing way through the orchards, and spending her time under the gentle care of the dryads, playing games, and learning to weave and nurture and sing, the sound of her voice charming the birds from the trees and the dryads leafy hair, and the touch of her feet on the grass leaving footprints of tiny flowers in her wake.

The golden apples took a full year to mature, and Káta had spent many days simply lying beneath the trees in the gentle golden light that the apples emitted, humming or singing softly to the plants, gazing up at the burnished fruit that always glowed with the pale gold of life, watching them grow slowly. As a child she had never thought to question why she too seemed to grow at an extraordinarily slow pace, for the aging and changes she underwent over the course of a year were approximate to the changes she would have borne witness to in a month, and as a young woman with the appearance of an seventeen year old (although she had actually seen the course of two hundred and four years) she thought it natural. She had certainly never thought to ask the dryads, for the tree-like female spirits were not kin to her race, and so differences between herself and them were not to be wondered at. It was not until she had come to Mærsalr three years later that she discovered such slow aging was not usual, even amongst the gods and goddesses. For the gods and goddesses to age such that their hair was white and their skin wrinkled the changes would generally span four hundred years; seeing in a year the change of three months. Thus it was not until Káta was sixty, although outwardly a child of five, that she began to witness the coming of the aged gods and goddesses to the orchards, brought by her mother, to eat the golden apples, for Káta had been born in the early ages of creation, before any of the Æsir had truly aged.

Due to her sheltered upbringing she had been too shy of them to make her presence known, watching them instead from the dappled shadows of the trees; a pair of curious golden eyes in an ever shifting dance of light and shade. She witnessed their rejuvenation countless times; watching hidden in the canopy of the trees or behind their trunks with wonder in her eyes, for as they ate the apples, they steadily glowed with a brighter and brighter gold as more of the apple passed their lips, and their years faded away; their skin tightening, their hair darkening and changing length, their postures straightening, their eyes becoming clear and bright once more, and their figures blooming out of emaciation into youthful strength, suppleness and beauty. By the time they had swallowed the last bite of the apple, they would be restored; beautiful and strong once more, and her mother would tell them that the golden glow of their skin would linger for a few days and then fade.

That too was another curiosity; and one that remained unanswered by her mother, for all her questions and imploring. For Káta had noticed when night drew in, or when she stood in the shadows, that she – like her mother – seemed to emit a pale golden glow permanently, the same glowing light as the apples, though she had never eaten one. It had not been until the arrival of the gods and goddesses, whose skin failed to gleam with the same faint aura of life until they ate the apples, that she was aware of it. Her mother was reluctant to give her details on such matters, and she had only heard the tale of her birth a few times; listening intently each time, and faithfully committing each detail to memory – aware that each telling might be the last. The information was sketchy at best, for all her mother would tell her was that her pregnancy was long, that she had to eat the golden apples during it, and that a little before she was born, Káta’s father had died. Káta did not know why her mother shrouded her origins in such secrecy, but she loved and trusted her, and felt sure that there was a grave reason why she kept the details from her, and knew if she ever truly had cause to know, her mother would tell her.

Thinking of her mother and the orchards, Káta felt overtaken by a great wave of homesickness and hugged the pillow to herself even tighter, ignoring the damp patches her tears had created. She had not seen her mother these past three years or so – which would not have been unusual in itself, had she been home – but deprived of her familiar forested surroundings and her playful dryad companions, she felt the loss more keenly that she had ever done so in the past. She knew that her mother, when she was away, was occupied with one of two things; either searching for more of the special apple trees – for they were known to appear without pattern or reason, growing in the wilds of Asgard, although never in any of the other Nine Worlds – or residing in her halls within Valhalla; for as a goddess she possessed her own halls, and it was her duty to spend some of her time there. Idly Káta wondered where in Valhalla her mother’s halls might be; surely if she went there and told them who she was someone would take her to her mother’s halls – a guard maybe, or a serving man or handmaiden – although, as far as she knew, no one knew that she was Iðunn’s daughter, and so stating that she was might not help her at all; that was something her mother had made her promise to keep, not exactly secret, but private at least, and out of common knowledge before she had left for Mærsalr.

Káta began to give the matter more serious consideration, her tears fading as she began to consider her options. She had never been to Valhalla before, although she had, of course seen it. Five leagues from outskirts of the city of Asgard a traveller could see Valhalla; for the immense hall rose high above the city in its very centre on a great stone tor that was covered with vines and plants, the stone plateau of which the building took its roots from, the burnished gold dome of the building shining like a beacon across the city. From such a distance however, it was little more than a gleaming gold spot; for the city itself was as grand in scale as Valhalla – laid out in a decadently palatial manner –spreading out in an even circle, the buildings uncramped and spacious, and frequently interspersed with gardens and water features. On an unhurried foot it took a good six hours from any of the nine gates into the city to reach the tor of Valhalla. Not all buildings were grand or sumptuous, but the very architecture spoke of strength and magnificence; a true city for the gods.

Once within the city, the dome was no longer as visible, but before the ancient gate Valgrind – the main entrance to Valhalla which faced north out towards the Bifröst – the golden tree, Glasir, whose leaves were of red gold, and bark of yellow, its gleaming roots growing out of a pool of white gold in the stone of the tor, caught the sunlight at all hours of the day, and shone with such brilliance that it was nigh on impossible to look at, and in the sunset, appeared aflame. The thousands of rooms and halls of Valhalla were carved from the living rock of the tor, the immense work of three generations of master stone masons, and the walls and pillars inside were lined with panels of fine wood – some carved and some plain –, the grander rooms rumoured to have walls and ceilings inlaid with gemstones and rare metals. Many of the buildings of the city were built atop and set into the sides of smaller tors and pillars of stone, although none rose as high as the tor of Valhalla, which was said to be so tall that if a person stood atop the golden dome and reached up, their hand would pass through the dome of the sky, and up into the sea of space to touch a branch of the impossibly large world tree, the great ash; Yggdrasil. The common thought was that the stone and land the city was built upon was once a mountain, with the tor of Valhalla the mountain’s heart, and the hall carved out of its peak, for all the other tors sloped down from Valhalla; their height decreasing the further they were from the centre. The only exceptions to this were the great carved statues that stood sentinel in pairs, one on either side of each of the nine gates that led into the city, and the guard towers that ringed the outer wall, for they were built, and not sculpted by nature.

From the nine gates, there were nine major causeways that divided the city; each leading up to Valhalla – wide stone paths that gave way to perfectly carved stone steps as the gradient steepened, the immense bridges supported by a series of vast stone arches that grew progressively larger, beneath which buildings were built. Each staircase and the arches that supported it were carved from a single giant wedge of stone that was itself the same stone of the tor of Valhalla, and the stone that the city was built upon. The beginning of each staircase was presided over by a pair of guards, save that of the ninth, which led to the Einherjar Stigr – the warrior’s path – the wardens of which were Valkyries. Only the ninth gate, the Bifröst Gate, its staircase, and path, were aligned with a direct compass bearing; facing due north. The others spiralled out, appearing to segment the city into equal sections when viewed from above so that the causeways, the tor of Valhalla and the outer wall gave the appearance of a nine-spoked wagon wheel. Apart from the Bifröst Gate, all opened out to various areas of the surrounding land, and were used for general traffic in and out of the city, and all were named for the place they gave out onto, or, more commonly, the nearby portals that led to some of the other Nine Worlds. Clockwise from the Bifröst Gate they were known as; the Eastern Sentinel Gate, the Helheim Gate, the Gate of Marmora or the Sea Gate, the Álfheimr Gate, the Jötunheimr Gate, the Múspellsheimr Gate, the Gate of Iða, and the Western Sentinel Gate.

Mærsalr was located fairly close to the city walls; in the section between the Gate of Iða and the Múspellsheimr Gate, taking up a large lush area of land – for whilst the hall itself was large, it did not occupy all of the space it had, the majority occupied by a rolling series of gardens and lakes. The gardens were not for the sole usage of the nymphs, however, for their beauty was remarkable, and many walked in them merely for the pleasure of the sights.

Káta knew how to get to the causeway that led up to Valhalla from the Western Sentinel Gate, and even to the Einherjar Stigr – for at every sunset a procession of the new einherjar that Odin had chosen to join him in Valhalla marched up the path, led and flanked by Valkyries whether the group was one or many hundreds. Káta had watched the ceremony several times at first, fascinated at the sight of the honoured fallen warriors, and delighted by the scores of horns that all sounded as one to hail their arrival and their bravery – but she didn’t rate her chances of getting past the guards (let alone a pair of Valkyries) very highly if there was no evidence save her own word that she was the daughter of Iðunn. Given the nymph’s antics she wouldn’t be surprised if many came to the gates with more and less evidence than she of their divine parentage; she had borne witness to the birth of many infant demi-gods and goddesses. She sighed. The whole plan was doomed to failure before she even set foot outside her room. She frowned angrily; annoyed that even in thought, she had been thwarted again – and this was just to see her mother!

Káta blinked and rolled over onto her back, her face still flushed. What was she thinking of? This was utterly ridiculous. She was better than this; _stronger_ than this! She was capable. She could deal with whatever fate dealt her. It was silly to think of going and complaining to her mother, and getting annoyed that she had been foiled in her plans of doing so. Hadn’t she already managed to adapt to her new surroundings? Hadn’t she learned without aid how to protect herself from the less amiable aspects of individuals? Her arms had relaxed, and she peeled the pillow away from her chest, making a face, for her body heat had transferred to it, and she felt sticky. The room, which had been so pleasantly cool, was now hot; the air close. Káta thought of bathing; but it she did not particularly relish the thought of sharing the communal bathing pool (aware from experience that it would be full of nymphs fighting for a place under the miniature waterfall that covered one wall to wash their hair) or the hot springs, regardless of the privacy they afforded; for both were in natural caverns that lay beneath the nymph’s pavilion. With a little wriggle of delight, Káta thought of her well.

She leapt from her bed, darting out of her room and fairly flying down the corridor and sliding down the balustrade of the staircases before rushing out into the sunlight, her cares no longer burdens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! Exciting stuff - learning a bit more about Káta's history, and the fact that she isn't actually a nymph!  
> Oh, also - this is where I really start to cross mythologies. I think I was already treading a fine line with the nymphs, but with the dryads; stand back - we're goin' Greek!
> 
> Also, if you like this story, or any of my other ones, and you want access to sneak previews on chapters that I'm working on, Like my Facebook page, or Follow my Twitter :)  
> https://www.facebook.com/josephinetomkinsauthor  
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	8. Resolutions and Purpose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life begins to return to Loki, breathed into him by the fresh air that is Káta...as does his conscience, and hope. Káta, meanwhile, has more than just one secret.

Loki had escaped Thor easily enough. The thunder god, having decided that he had successfully uncovered his brother’s secret (given the evidence of his own eyes, and the fact that some very unsubtle questions coupled with Loki’s natural reticence had led to the belief that his brother was keeping the identity of his nymph lover – or at least, the nymph that was the object of his affections – private in his usual secretive manner) had strode off to report to Frigg his success, leaving his brother with the vague excuse that he had a matter to attend to.

Loki’s thoughts were too full of Káta to dwell on Thor’s strange behaviour, and he was more pleased than bemused at his brother’s abrupt departure when he had ostensibly been searching for him only moments before. He had fairly winged his way back to his rooms where he had flopped backwards onto his unmade bed (for, unlike several nights earlier in the week, he had actually slept in it the previous night, albeit fitfully, and then growled at the handmaiden that had come to tidy it, sending her scurrying away), arms out flung, grinning.

He had some vague concerns about Káta’s annoyance with him, but he had shoved them and the matter of her pained expression to the back of his mind; for the moment, all he would let himself do was to bask in the thought of her. _Káta._

She had been so fierce. So fearless. Exuberant in her anger and unrestrained; her emotions somehow wild and untamed like a rocky wilderness – as if she had never known or needed restraint. There was a freshness about her. A little tamped down, perhaps, but eager to be released, and he had seen it – _felt_ it in the dynamism of her expressions and the tones of her voice; flourishing in its release like a songbird escaping its cage and singing its joy to the clear free heavens. She was like all the seasons rolled into one and personified, all of them jostling below the surface and flying out in her emotions with hectic vigour; uncontrolled and irrepressible.

Loki found himself breathing deeply, his head giddy, taken away from the grey staleness of his own emotions and transported into a new world full of colour and vitality, brought about by this singly remarkable nymph. His own body seemed a dull shell that he didn’t want to return to, whilst hers was alight with a keen energy and passionately sparkling; drawing him on, exhorting him to be the same. He felt as if he had been dead all his life, but she; _she_ was _alive_. Filled with a passion for living that he himself had never felt until now – like wildfire in his veins instead of blood; a reckless, joyful abandon – making the most of every month given so that the time that passed could have been filled with the doings of a year. It was as if she contained some bright spark of fire; a drop of distilled life in her veins – she had even seemed to glow slightly, a luminous salubrious gold that came from her flawless pale skin the way light came from the sun.

The mere thought of her vivacity made his heart quicken, beating fit to burst with its own life. It was as if she had unlocked something in him; her own carefree spirit fecklessly throwing out sparks of burning exuberance that had leapt into his own bleak soul and lit the dying embers that lay in his cooling heart, warming him from the inside, the faint flicker becoming a flare that dared defiance at the shrinking cold wasteland. He felt a delicious vigour returning to his limbs, sparks flying in his mind, the warmth spreading out from his heart to fill his entire body, casting off the shroud-like languor that had wrapped him for the past weeks like a snake shedding its old skin. He felt positively buoyant; thoughts of new and more elaborate tricks conjured in his mind, and yet the excitement they brought was nothing to her.

He wondered at her parentage; surely such a creature could not be born a nymph, they were too shallow, it was an impossible thought for an individual of such undoubted character to purely be a nymph – she _had_ to be of mixed race. She carried herself with more innate self-worth than many of the goddesses of Valhalla, her posture perfect and yet relaxed. He was sure that she would be wonderful to play tricks with. Kvasir was all right as a listener, or for a prod, but Káta he was sure would be as alive as he was when confronted with the idea of mischief. She was so unusual; as much an oddity amongst her fellows as he.

Loki flexed his fingers and glanced down at them, revelling in the thought that he had held her – had touched her, and yet wondering why he hadn’t thought of it – _basked_ in it, at the time. True his head had been reeling at her stillness; that she hadn’t tried to fight him, or break free from his touch – especially given his current aspect. Absently he snapped his fingers, reminded of his physical state and the advice she had so instinctively given him, summoning a light platter of food from the kitchens and eating it abstractedly as he thought. He had grown to think that there must be something unpleasant about the touch of his skin – or perhaps something alarming about its coolness –, for in the past, regardless of whether it was in jest or in aid, those he had touched had always recoiled, or at the very least their faces had filled with alarmed surprise. Only his mother had ever borne his touch without the slightest flinch or change of expression; Thor too, now that he thought of it, although that was probably because he had grown up with it. It had been sometime before he had realised that it was because of what he was. It had been when he was a great deal younger, still a child, and he had tried to help a handmaiden with a tray she was carrying. The touch of his hand on her arm had been enough for her to drop the tray with a shriek and stare at him with fearful eyes. His own alarm and confusion had been overwhelming, and in his desperation to discover why she and others acted that way he had grasped her arm, ignoring her expression, and pleaded for an answer. She had seemed surprised through her disgust and fear, and had replied to him, perhaps out of shock. He had carried her words with him for many years. _Don’t you know?_ He had shaken his head. _It’s because of what you are; you’re –_ his mother had arrived then, however, and whisked him away. But the damage had been done. He knew that they reviled him because of what he was to become; the God of Mischief and Lies. The god that all others hated for his trickery – thoughts of it being unfair to despise a person because of their nature, because of what they were born to be, had never checked their dislike.

He frowned and shook his head, determined not to think of such depressing things when there was something as wonderful as Káta to occupy his thoughts. He paused in his eating as his mind was overrun with her. He remembered the faint scent of her skin; a trace of which he had caught when he had whispered in her ear, so close to touching her. He thought for a moment, frowning; the smell was familiar, although the particular warmth that she had leant it was not.

 _Apples._ She smelled like apples; sharp and yet sweet, with the faintest hint of a tang. A gentle smile spread Loki’s features; it was similar to her personality, although he thought it probable that her disposition had a little more spice. There was a lot about her that reminded him of apples; her hair was a dark brown with a golden sheen like dried apple pips, the shape of her face and round cheeks like that of the fruit, and the blush that had suffused them the same pink rosiness of winter apples.

Smiling faintly, Loki thought of her eyes; so glowingly brilliant, such an incredible colour. The dauntless vivacity of them made his blood rush as though driven by a waterfall, not his rapidly beating heart; so ferociously bright in her anger, and yet also capable of uncommon kindness. It was an expression he yearned to see again; every fibre and particle of his being strained with the fierce desire to see and feel such a gaze once more. But that was impossible; he had ruined his chances of that happening. His thoughts clouded over once more, and he exhaled angrily, leaning forwards, his hands gripping each other fiercely, shaking slightly. Now that he had thought of it, he couldn’t get the sight of her eyes out of his mind; the very moment of betrayal – the musing earnestness and kindness clouding over with confusion that swiftly changed to shocked alarm, and finally, the emotion that hurt him the most, that he was so familiar with: betrayed hurt. They were burned over his vision with such clarity that she could have been standing before him.

 _And yet what had I betrayed?_ He wondered. He knew he _had_ betrayed her; it was an expression he had felt on his own face too often to not recognise it, and yet the reason escaped him. He thought back to the way she had looked at him before that; her expression full of such earnestness and trust – unequivocally given to him, just as she had given him her kindness so unreservedly. Still he wondered, unsure and unused to considering the feelings of others. Odin had always cut him deepest when he had been off guard, when his barriers had lapsed; it had been worse when he was younger – still learning how to harden his heart, and protect himself with a shield of feigned indifference. Had he done that to her – struck her when she was not expecting it; when she was unprotected? Loki frowned, conflicted. He did not think that most people had cause for such barriers as he did. He was sure that such a person as Káta had never been subjected to such criticism and disappointment as he had received from Odin; she had too much of a feeling of being loved – so why should she need such barriers? They were only there to deflect pain and harsh words. Loki sighed, unable to figure it out; consideration of other’s feelings had never been his forte.

Regardless of his understanding, however, he regretted what he had said and done; the way he had reacted. He frowned slightly. Regret was something he was not very familiar with; it had been years since he had felt it – not as regarded his own actions and their effects. He probed his feelings, tentatively feeling his way around the awkward emotion. He didn’t like the fact that he had hurt her. Anger flared within his breast, and his face was twisted in a grimace of loathing. He felt repulsed by his own actions, and hated them and himself. Thinking that it was instinct was no excuse – even if it had been a protective reaction –; he had known what he was doing, he had known that he was hurting her, and yet he hadn’t tried to stop himself.

Loki’s hands were clenching and unclenching, and his mouth was drawn in a silent snarl. Unable to contain his anger a moment longer he leapt to his feet, upending the tray of food with a great crash as it struck the floor, the food flying in all directions. Ignoring the potentially lethal slick of food in his path, he strode over to the nearest wall and dealt it a fierce blow with his closed fist. There was a dull thud and a sickening crack. Loki regarded his mutilated knuckles dispassionately; the skin was laid bare to the bone, the cartilage and bones warped and splintered. The wound was smeared with blood, and it glistened darkly, running down in trails over his fingers and up his arm, mixing with the white dust from the stone that covered his skin. It was not the first time he had done this. The patch of stone he had struck was pitted and worn, slightly sunken from a lifetime of blows, and his strike had left several more faint dents; these slightly bloody. At first, when he was younger, he had merely kicked and beat ineffectually at the wall with his fists when frustrated or angry; it was a little while before he took to punching the stone, and a few years before he learnt to contain the howls of agony that had summoned wary handmaidens that had become horrified upon discovering the violence he had done to himself. His behaviour had given cause for irritating questions that he couldn’t answer adequately (why was he doing it, was something wrong, did he want to talk about it?), and had led to a time when most of Valhalla thought him deranged or at the very least, mentally deficient.

He muttered a few sullen words and the horrific wound sealed itself up without a trace, the blood vanishing, leaving nothing but an echoing impression of pain in his mind. He sat on a chair, his head in his hands, ignoring the fading ache. _I will_ not _hurt her again,_ he vowed silently to himself; _even if father requested it of me._ He frowned, staring at his boots, realising for the first time how precious Káta was to him, though he barely knew her. There had to be plenty who knew her better than he, and yet here he was, practically a stranger, and assigning himself as her guardian. A fierce surge of possessive protectiveness overtook him, and an unreasonable jealousy of those unknowns that were graced by knowing her; he would not tolerate any injury to her, he would protect her, even if it was from himself; he didn’t want to think of her having such an expression, feeling such hurt as he had inflicted upon her earlier.

The best way to prevent that, logically, was to not see her again – ever; to forget her. Loki heard a little moan of pain and refusal; it was a few moments before he realised that it had escaped from his own mouth. No; forgetting her was impossible, he wasn’t sure why, but he knew he could no more resist seeing her than stop his heart from beating – he didn’t have the strength to relinquish her, and besides that, he had to protect her from others – that was an impossible task if he had exiled himself from her presence. There had to be another way; a simpler way – a way that was good.

He wondered at his thoughts. How could it be that he was so suddenly willing to do anything for this young woman? Selflessness had never been a strong characteristic of his; there was too much to lose by it – in this he was as much saving himself, as he was saving her, though he would have given his life for her sake and hers alone had it been required. He wasn’t sure what it was about her that made him feel like this, like he had to protect her the way a loyal hound would unthinkingly sacrifice itself for its master. It was strange; this abrupt betrayal of indifference – the rich tapestry of convoluted feelings it created had to have a name, though he could not think what such a collection could be called. What was it that made you feel that your every breath was devoted to another, your heartstrings irrevocably binding you to them, the very thought of losing them creating a tortuous pain more wracking than any mortal wound, and the notion of their being with another bringing intolerable fury? Was it even possible for such a feeling to be named? How was it possible for such a feeling, that affected one physically so strongly, that was such an indescribable intermingling of tenderness and passion, jealousy and protectiveness, heartbreaking joy and soul-destroying misery, to have one mere word that described all it did?

Usually he would have fretted at such a deplorable gap in his knowledge, would have been concerned at the shocking lapse that his mind, usually so sharp and ready with answers, was having – the difficulty with which it was finding answers to his questions, but there was too much to think of; too many questions to solve, and the most pressing one was how he could safeguard Káta. To begin with, he knew, he had to start sleeping and eating again; he had to retrain his body back to – _exceeding_ – its prior fitness. But protecting her would be difficult if she hated him; if he could only protect her physically he was only doing half his job – he had to protect her on all fronts; emotional and physical. The question was how was he meant to do that?

 _Make amends,_ a little quiet voice whispered in the back of his mind, situated somewhere near where he had pushed his regret; it was a voice he hadn’t heard since childhood – a voice that had prompted him to apologise, and that had comforted him in his confusion; it had not lasted very long, quashed eventually by the permanent anger that had come to inhabit him, but it had remained – small but determined. _Explain to her; she understood before – better than you – she’ll understand again._ Loki blinked astonished. How in Valhalla was he supposed to do such a thing? _Win her trust back,_ the little voice murmured again; _you lost it when you hurt her, but her heart is generous; you know that – you felt it – you crave it now, her kindness and trust. You have to earn her forgiveness; you lost it once, don’t let it slip away again._

Loki straightened in his chair, his face calm and, unusually, at peace. In his youth he had trusted the voice – a voice some would have called his conscience, and others hope – and it had caused him some self-sacrifice as he unbent his pride to follow its direction, but had also brought a warm glow to his heart.

Resolve glowed in his eyes, and in his heart, a flicker of hope had been rekindled.

 

*

 

Káta did not know whether any others knew of her well. It was hidden in a blanket of forest that cloaked the lower slopes of the mountains of Asgard, and whilst travelling there meant exiting the city through the Gate of Iða and riding a horse across the plain for which the gate was named, Káta revelled in the freedom of the wild gallop, and could feel her heart singing with longing for the welcoming dappled shadows of the forest.

She had not been at Mærsalr for more than a few months before she had begun to become restless with the circular daily routine, and was longing to explore further afield (for she had already scouted out the entire city, scouring it for its many gardens, which, while striking, were nothing to the wild untamed beauty of the wilderness and the forest). The mountains were a great deal further from the city than the forest, for it grew out from their stony foundations in a spit of green; a tongue of verdant foliage extending towards the city, and the forest itself was like a great living skirt for the mountains, the trees softening the transition of the land from the turf of the plain to the unforgiving stone of the mountainsides. It had not taken her long to become familiar with the routes and paths of the forest for they did not change the way her mother’s orchards did, and before long she had come across the well. It was in a secluded glade that was also home to a sunny meadow of long soft grass and wildflowers, the edges sheltered by the great trees that towered about it. The well itself was on the edge of the tiny sward, surrounded by a thick spinney of trees that let through thin beams and keys of light onto the clear green water, and was more like a forest pool than a proper well; shallow to begin with before the ground dropped sharply away to a depth that Káta was yet to determine, although not for want of trying. It would have been an oval, or even a perfect circle, save for a single curved projection of clear turf. The projection made the pool bean-shaped, and was regularly illuminated by a circle of warm golden light. It was in this spot that Káta had left her most prized possession, and as such, the well and meadow had this special claim to her attention.

Prior to leaving the orchards, Iðunn had pressed a small leather drawstring pouch into her daughter’s hand with the words, “Plant it when you find the right place; it will remind you of home.” There had been no time for Káta to examine what was inside it before she had mounted her horse and rode out alone on her first ever journey away from the orchards, leaving her mother behind. That night she had opened it and tipped it up, a single apple seed falling out onto her palm. There had been no doubt in Káta’s mind that it was the seed of a golden apple, and was glad that she had a piece of home to take with her. She had kept the pouch and the pip safe, tucked into the pleats of her heavy woollen riding skirt, taking it out every night of the week long trip to simply stare at the pip, which was the exact same shade of brown as her hair, and drawing strength from it as though it were a talisman. It had been confronting, entering the city for the first time, for although the city was spacious, it was full of more people and buildings than Káta had ever seen in her entire life. She had shyly asked for directions towards Mærsalr, one man eventually taking pity on her, and pointing her in the right direction. There she had been received and welcomed by Freyja, who presided over the nymphs, and taken up to her room. Her clothing and other possessions had arrived ahead of her, and she had been dismayed and affronted to discover their untidy state in her two modest chests, soon figuring out from the whispers and stifled giggles that the other nymphs had inspected them (not attempting to conceal the fact) and did not think much of her clothes, as they did with all new arrivals. After that she had kept the pouch on her at all times, until she discovered a secret little ledge in the frame of her bed beneath the mattress where she could tuck it, and rely on it being safe.

She had practically forgotten the pouch by the time she had discovered the well, but as soon as she had seen the little disc of fine turf, the soil dark and rich, she knew that was where the pip was to be planted. She had sung to the pip every day after planting it, floating in the water with her crossed arms resting before her on the bank of the projection, having remembered the dryads’ teaching. It grew with startling rapidity, and soon there was a lovely little apple tree, its trunk slightly knotted and leaning towards the water, its branches low and spreading with the distinctive pale green leaves of the golden apple trees. The same year it had been planted, it bore a single perfect golden apple. Káta was wary of eating it, knowing its properties and the restriction her mother had imposed on her when in the orchards, and instead had plucked it and taken it back to her room, hidden in her sleeve. Her clothes chests lay empty and unused beneath her bed, for the room had several larger ones for her use and she had shifted her dresses into them. She had dragged one of the disused chests out and placed the glowing golden apple in it.

The casket was now home to four more apples; the sixth still growing slowly on the tree, and when the lid was opened the strength of the combined glow illuminated the entire room with a warm golden light. Káta had taken the precaution of covering the casket with a blanket, for if uncovered at night the golden glow was strong enough to shine through the fine hairline gap where the lid closed. The delicious smell of apples was harder to disguise, however, but Káta had always had a partiality to eating apples and that, coupled with the enticing fresh smell that wafted from her room, led only to the other nymphs adding the nickname of ‘apple girl’ to her. She would have liked to keep the apples in a carved eski like her mother’s but such items were not easily found, and asking might lead to awkward questions and the eventual discovery of the apples.

Káta took in a deep breath of the clear air of the glade with its faint lacing of the apple’s scent and smiled. This was to be the cure for all her downtrodden feelings, she decided; she didn’t need to trouble her mother – she just had to come to the glade with its pool and her tree, and all would be well. She stripped off her dress with a little difficulty, for the soft fabric clung to her sweat-dampened skin, and waded into the water, delighting in its cool embrace. It was only a few moments before she reached out a dripping hand to the bank and grasped a fistful of her dress, pulling it into the water to scrub it clean.

After her cleaning exertions, and having wrung out her dress and spread it out in a sunny patch of grass to dry, Káta bobbed about in the water aimlessly, humming softly to herself, and wondering idly just what it was that had driven her mother to sending her into the city of Asgard. Until then her mother had appeared content with their arrangement, for her daughter to stay in her orchards and watch over the precious fruit with the dryads. Káta was not to know that her sudden transplanting was due to the influence of the Queen.

Iðunn had returned to Valhalla and the city after another search around the continent of Asgard for wild growing trees of the apples of youth. She had been startled to find Hlín waiting for her one morning, with a summons from Frigg. Wonderingly, Iðunn had followed the goddess to the Queen’s hall where she witnessed one of Frigg’s rare disclosures of her foresight. The Queen had strongly advised Iðunn to send her daughter to the city, and for her to stay with the nymphs in their hall, under the care of Freyja, though she was not strictly speaking one of them. Perplexed and concerned, Iðunn had asked why such a portent was so important as to be revealed and acted upon, anxious for her daughter’s safety – for it was common knowledge that Frigg generally let the tapestry of fate weave itself, and intervention on her part always had to be warranted. Frigg had allayed her fears, stating merely that her dream had shown the coming of great happiness and peace to many if her daughter was to come to the city, and that if she didn’t a terrible tragedy would befall Asgard. Iðunn had naturally wondered at such a prophecy, but had wisely followed Frigg’s words, although still not knowing what it was her daughter was to do. She had refrained from mentioning the foretelling to Káta, aware that it might change the way the future might unfold, and not wishing to put pressure upon her. It had been with a heavy heart that she had farewelled her daughter, for she had kept Káta in the protective seclusion of the orchards not without reason.

Káta sighed. It was not in her nature to fret at a problem, and so she discarded the thought soon enough with little perturbation. She floated through the pools of light and shadow that mottled the water, and gazed up at the single golden apple, growing steadily on its branch. Time would tell. With patience, answers invariably came.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...just a few notes on some of the things in this chapter (because I can't help myself).  
> YAY for the life that Káta's starting to bring back to Loki - but just a little NB to note; Loki isn't going to be fixed quite so quickly. Basically, I liken Loki's internal landscape to just that - a landscape, and it's pretty...sad, and dull, and bleak, and completely dead. So these feelings and the new life that Kata's brought to him have refreshed all that - there IS life in there again, and it's green, but such an abrupt change can never be complete - it's only...cosmetic. There are still deep chasms of hurt and confusion in his soul/heart/psyche amongst the new greenness and life that want healing and will be healed in time. So this is basically just to say - Loki still has troubles.
> 
> What the handmaiden was going to say to Loki (you may or may not have guessed) was that he was a jötunn; NOT as he later presumed, the God of Lies and Mischief. Frigg interceded in time to prevent him from learning; for good, or for bad.
> 
> Also, in case you haven't twigged yet (no pun intended), Káta's eyes are the colour of the golden apples; Loki just hasn't lived long enough to warrant eating one yet so he hasn't actually seen them first hand, and so can't draw the comparison. Her eyes are that colour for reasons I shan't disclose (we've got to have SOME suspense).
> 
> Ummm and yes, Loki does self harm. Thankfully, he has his magic to heal himself, but still...self harm is self harm.
> 
> And yes, "Oh, _Loki!_ " for the fact that he can't realise that what he feels for Káta is love. Pure, powerful, simple, and yet ever so complex, love (that I may or may not be romanticising heavily, but hey).
> 
> Also, if you like this story, or any of my other ones, and you want access to sneak previews on chapters that I'm working on, Like my Facebook page, or Follow my Twitter :)  
> https://www.facebook.com/josephinetomkinsauthor  
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	9. A Favour and a Reassessment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fróði has a favour to ask of Káta that teaches her that prejudices, once formed, are much harder to overcome than she ever thought - even for her.

Káta did her best to forget the incident with Loki, after all, he was just another irritating god, and she had put the matter out of her mind within a few days. When she had first come to Mærsalr she would have had great difficulty in doing so, but she had learnt a great deal in the intervening years, and putting disappointments of such a nature behind her was one of them.

It was not until she had put Loki out of mind that Káta remembered her promise to Fróði. The moment she remembered she made the walk across the city, buzzing with curiosity as to what the head librarian could possibly wish to ask of her, although slightly concerned that she might run into Loki in the library once more. She had noted on previous visits that he was something a fixture of the library; nearly always to be found in his one corner. Káta pushed the matter to one side, however, sure that if she avoided his alcove she would not run into the unpleasant young god. Instead, she turned her mind to Fróði and his favour. His manner had been strange, she recalled; oddly preoccupied and deadly serious – there had even been a moment when she had thought he wasn’t sure about asking her for the favour. It was a nigglingly mysterious business.

Upon entering the library he was at her side within seconds, wheezing a little. “You’ve come, good.” He muttered, leading her past the silent shelves to the very back of the library. There he took her through a door she had never seen opened before, and into the room beyond which appeared to be something between a study and a sitting room. He settled her on a fur draped chair and sat himself in the chair opposite. “So,” he said heavily after a long pause.

“So?” Asked Káta. Fróði gazed at her very hard for a few moments, then finally leant forwards in his chair, his hands knotting over themselves.

“What I ask of you, I do not ask lightly, Káta.” Fróði began seriously. “I have deliberated long on the matter, and I think that I must ask you for help.” Káta frowned, anxious.

“What is it, Fróði? Are you in some sort of trouble, or –?” Fróði waved a hand, gently silencing her.

“No, no; I come to you on another’s behalf.” Fróði frowned deeply once more, and then took a heavy breath. “I…have a young friend who needs your help. I know you are kind and understanding, and you seem able to talk a person’s problem out of them – to tease out the tangle of their troubles. He needs this…badly; very badly. He does not know that I am asking this of you – I do not think he is even aware of the depth of his troubles himself.” Fróði sighed sadly, and Káta frowned concernedly.

“I’ll do whatever I can to help him,” she said solemnly. Fróði smiled sadly, and took one of her hands in both of his, patting it gently.

“You have my thanks – but do not be too hasty in committing yourself to this. He has been troubled for a very long time – very nearly his entire life, in fact – and he is not one to welcome intrusion or help. He is not always over fond of _my_ taking a hand in his affairs – and I have known him since he was young. I have every expectation that it will be a difficult task, and it is likely that he will try and make it harder for you…” Fróði half-smiled dryly, “it is somewhat in his nature to do so – and he likes to be contrary.”

“Who is he? I’ll help him,” Káta replied instantly; everything Fróði was telling her merely meant that her involvement was more crucial – she did not think that there was anything that Fróði could say that would make her say no.

“He is not well liked by most people, Káta,” Fróði said warningly.

“I don’t care,” she said stubbornly, “you say he needs my help and I’ll help him. Now, who is he?” Fróði gazed gently into her determinedly set face, and then smiled, almost apologetically.

“Prince Loki.” Káta froze, her eyes wide with shock.

“Prince _Loki_?” She asked disbelievingly. “You want me to help _him_?” Fróði frowned slightly, but raised his hands calmingly.

“Káta, he’s not what you think he’s like. The gods and goddesses just don’t like him because of the way he behaves; they don’t like being made fools of – he offends their pride, and he isn’t fond of humouring people just to salve their injured pomposity. He’s not like what they say he is. He isn’t nasty, he isn’t hideous; he’s just misunderstood. I am surprised you have so easily followed the opinions of others in such a matter.” Fróði was frowning slightly at her with faint disappointment; it was an expression that Káta did not like to see him direct at her, but he had resurfaced all her prior hurt regarding Loki and she refused to do anything until he had heard her out.

Káta leapt to her feet incredulously. “ _Misunderstood_?” She cried, “Fróði he’s fooled you just as much as me! He _tricks_ you into misunderstanding him! I met him here the other day, when we last saw each other.” Fróði frowned, but did not interrupt. Káta continued, speaking faster and faster in her agitation, pacing restlessly. “He appeared behind me after Kvasir was thrown out.” She clarified. “I didn’t know who he was to begin with and I told him to eat and sleep because he looked so terrible, and then when I did recognise him he tried to blackmail me about my trick on Kvasir, but I didn’t let him, and so he pretended to act like there was something more to him than merely this charismatic trickster. He’s a brilliant actor, I’ll admit that, to be able to appear as if he’s hiding all this confusion and pain beneath the arrogance, and to let it through every now and then so you _think_ you’re seeing what’s really inside – but Fróði!” Káta stamped her foot in her anger, stopping to stand still before the head librarian. “It’s just an _act_! After I told him what I had seen he became completely horrible – he was worse than any of the nymphs could ever be! He _enjoys_ hurting people, Fróði – there’s something wrong with him. I thought, perhaps, it was because he was hurt – I thought I had seen it in his eyes – and so he hurt others, but I was wrong. I’ve been wrong so many times about people since I came to Asgard, Fróði – and in Loki I was the most wrong of all.”

The old god was staring up at Káta with wide eyes, his expression astounded. After a few moments his face split into a smile and be began to laugh. Káta frowned.

“Fróði?” She asked, cautiously. He grasped her hands with his, drawing her towards him, still laughing gently.

“Káta; that’s _him_.” He shook his head disbelievingly as Káta continued to stare at him in confusion. “You have a rare gift, Káta. I have known Loki since he was a child, and as he’s grown older I have watched his barriers grow in an attempt to protect himself from Odin’s wrath.” Káta frowned, but Fróði forestalled her, raising a hand. “Loki has become… _accustomed_ ,” Fróði spoke the word distastefully, “to concealing what he truly feels. He has been doing it for so long that not even his family are aware of it, and yet you – who have never met him before, who didn’t run from him when you first met, who dared to be yourself and treat him to a lash of your tongue and disregard his Princely status; you saw _through_ his barriers.” Fróði leant back in his chair, grinning broadly. Káta, however, was still frowning, and seeing her thought knotted expression, Fróði leant forwards once more. “Káta; Loki hides his true self from everyone, all the time. He has become so used to concealing it that he no longer reveals it, and when he does it is to a very select few…in fact, I do not know of anyone else beyond myself that he speaks candidly with. But there is more to it than that; he doesn’t even reveal the entirety of his true self to himself – a fact that I believe him to be unaware of as yet. Yet you managed to see it without any difficulty whatsoever, and for such a gap to be in his armour is dangerous for Loki – you wouldn’t have simply given him a shock; you would have given him a severe fright…and when Loki is caught off guard he tends to lash out.”

Káta took her seat once more, although her brow remained furrowed, albeit with a new confusion. “But _why_ , Fróði? Why is it dangerous for him to reveal himself? What problem could a _god_ have that would drive him to behave like that?” Fróði’s face became oddly contorted, and Káta was startled, for never in her entire acquaintance with him had she ever known the head librarian to become angry.

“Odin has never liked Loki.” Fróði said tersely. “He has disliked him for as long as I know, and has always favoured Thor over Loki; they are of an age, you understand. He has always compared the two, and never in Loki’s favour. It is for this reason that Loki is what he is; it is because of his… _father_ …that he has to protect himself, and why who he really is and who he has become must be hidden.” Káta’s eyes widened with stunned surprise.

“But Odin…he’s the Allfather – he’s King of Asgard; how could he behave like that, especially to his own son?” She asked, shocked.

Fróði’s bushy white eyebrows twitched and touch of his usual levity returned to his expression. “Even the wisest among us fall prey to our prejudices.” He said softly with a sad little smile.

Káta frowned slightly, but did not take the old god up on the matter – there were other more pressing things on her mind, and she felt that he might have really directed the comment towards her. She was not usually subject to her prejudices, indeed she thought of herself as a fairly open minded person, but in this matter at least she knew she was acting on a bias, even if that bias was founded on Loki’s behaviour. Slowly she stood once more, and began to pace back and forth, preoccupied in thought, and ruminating deeply. Fróði watched with silent patience, just as he had done so many times before with Loki.

At long last, Káta stopped before the head librarian, and while she was no longer frowning, her expression remained solemn. “I…can’t – I don’t –” she began haltingly, then sighed deeply, closing her eyes for a few moments and marshalling her thoughts. When she opened them once more they were clear and purposeful. “I will _try_ to help him, Fróði.” She said firmly. “But I don’t know how well I can like him…he –” she sat down abruptly, her eyes gentle and concerned, “he seemed so _different_ – he’s made up of so many parts, and he’s in such conflict – it was like anything could fly out at any moment, as if there was something inside him he didn’t even know was there and couldn’t control, and it seemed as though he _enjoyed_ hurting me. Are you sure that he will even _want_ to change?”

Fróði smiled gently. “All too often we become what we learn and are subject to – no one has ever tried to see Loki as anything but who and what they think he is; no one in his life has ever given him the chance to be good. He has been pulled and prodded into a shape that others made for him; thrust into a pre-conceived mould that he has vainly struggled to fight. You might be giving him that chance. I know that the kindness and trust I gave him as a child has led to his confiding and trusting in me.” Káta nodded solemnly, although there was still an unsure glimmer in her eyes. Fróði knew what she was thinking. “He _does_ want to change, Káta. You say you noticed the illness of his appearance?” Káta nodded slightly. “He has spent the past several weeks not eating, not sleeping, just brooding. I cannot profess to know exactly what it is that he is thinking on, but I do not think I would be wrong to say that he is struggling with the issue of who he is, who he wants to be, and who others see him to be. It is something he has never done before, and it is a task I fear will kill him if he does not have help.” Fróði took her hands in his. “I said that I did not ask this of you lightly, and I do not wish you to undertake it lightly either; nor because you feel pressured to on my account. It is a matter that requires some deep consideration on your part – I had not reckoned on your having already met the Prince before I asked you. Think on it; that is all I ask.” Káta returned Fróði’s smile, and nodded.

As she exited the library she was still frowning, and her heart was heavy.

 

Several days passed by, during which Káta continued to agonise over the issue that lay before her. Her compassion urged her strongly to help Loki, regardless of his previous behaviour to her, but some small part of her – her sense of self-preservation, perhaps – remained concerned of what might happen, and pulled her back. Her only comfort was that she was not likely to see Loki anytime soon, and so her decision was unlikely to be forced upon her by his appearance.

The day was particularly fine. A light cooling breeze offset what would have otherwise been the oppressive heat of the sun. Káta had chosen one of her lighter summer dresses – the pale yellowy green of early spring leaves that lacked sleeves – and had felt such peaceful calmness and patience that morning that she had taken the time to actually put her hair up with some pale gold ribbons. Runá, upon seeing this at breakfast, had insisted on redoing Káta’s hair into a much more elaborate style later in the day, the design of which she had just finished and wanted to try out – for Káta’s hair seemed to have a peculiar propensity to be styled, though she generally lacked the patience for it. Káta was in no real position to refuse; not only because she was unoccupied for the whole day, but also because she enjoyed having her hair brushed and done – two things that Runá knew.

Thus they sat together by the central fountain in the nymph’s pavilion, having raced each other there to occupy the spot, as well as a couple of the larger cushions that one group of the other nymphs had a bad habit of monopolising (bolting their morning meal in order to do so). The other nymphs followed soon after, and the friends could tell from their sour expressions that they had done exactly what the others had wished to do. They could not help but giggle in their triumph – a fact that was not lost upon the nymphs they had bested, whose faces all perceptively darkened. A moment later their expressions had changed with more speed than the wind. There was only one explanation of such an abrupt alteration; some gods had arrived, and most likely comely ones at that.

Runá was intent upon her work, undoing Káta’s previous careless handiwork, and combing out the crinkles and knots in her friend’s hair with a composite bone comb, and so did not look up. Káta, however, whose only occupation was to keep her head still and sort out the flowers that were to be used in her hair, which Runá had heaped in her lap, glanced around over her shoulder, earning her a tutting reprimand from her friend.

Her face first drained and then flushed a multitude of emotions flittering across it between the colour changes, and it was in a frown of abstraction and faint alarm that she turned to face forwards once more, her hands no longer sorting the flowers.

Kvasir was striding along the main path that led to the pavilion – which was a circular wooden building without walls, the roof supported by a series of great carved pillars, in between which gauze and linen drapes fluttered. Loki sauntered at his side.

Concern washed through Káta. She had no idea what could have drawn Loki to Mærsalr – it couldn’t be to continue irritating her, if indeed that was what he had been doing in the library, and she was sure that Fróði wouldn’t have sent him down. She fretted for a few moments, then took hold of herself sternly. She knew Loki was friends with Kvasir, and although she had never seen him about Mærsalr before, it was the most natural thing in the Nine Worlds for him to come down with his friend; she was being as self-centred as the nymphs if she expected he, a major god, had come down just for her. Furious with herself for acting in such a silly manner she thrust her concern about Loki away from herself, and endeavoured to recover her previous good humour. It was not particularly difficult to do; the weather was so pleasant, and the gentle caress of the wind against her skin was so lovely, not to mention the tinglingly soothing sensation of having her hair brushed, that Káta soon found herself returned. With a smile she applied herself to sorting the flowers once more.

 

*

 

Loki felt his chest tighten as he glimpsed Káta through the rippling gauzy curtains of the pavilion. Although he was still a fair distance away, and though she sat with her back to him, partially obscured by her friend from the library, Loki could have recognised her anywhere. He kept his face sternly under control, however; firmly cutting off the impulse to smile in that way that only she could summon.

Kvasir, of course, knew nothing of his purpose in coming, although Loki had seen the smug satisfaction in the god’s expression when he had visited him that morning saying that he would try a visit to the nymphs. He had been busy in the intervening time – eating and sleeping, and when he was not doing them; training furiously in the practice yard. His skin had lost its unhealthy pallor, and he had regained a good deal of the weight and muscle tone he had lost.

As the two gods drew nearer there was a flurry of moment in the pavilion, and a number of pretty faces appeared, peeking with mock shyness out from behind the columns at them, although it was obvious that they could not know the identity of those that approached. Loki wanted nothing better than to wrinkle his nose; such repulsively behaving creatures were often to be found in eyelash batting gaggles about Thor, releasing a never-ceasing stream of inane chatter that was of less significance that the buzz of a bee while his brother laughed, quaffed ale and mead like a horse did water, and flexed his muscles.

The nymph’s behaviour drew Káta’s attention, and she turned an inquiring, if jaundiced, glance over her shoulder, ignoring the giggling nymphs with the air of a person girding themself for an extended period of sickening tediousness. She raked them both up and down, frowning, before recognition and surprise leapt into her face. Their eyes met for the briefest of moments before she turned back away.

Loki’s heart was hammering unevenly in his chest, for as momentary as the glance had been, it had been enough for him to see and read the transformation in her expression. The vague questioning abruptly replaced with a frozen mask of surprise, dislike and alarm as she recognised him. It struck a cold heavy blow to his heart, but he did not falter. He had not been such a naïve fool as to expect her to receive and respond to his appearance with any degree of pleasure given his previous behaviour, but as it was, seeing her expression in the flesh – the naked emotion – was a great deal harder than merely coming to the conclusion that she would. Nevertheless, he continued onwards, and managed to summon a grin in response to the sidelong smug smirk that Kvasir sent him.

They reached the pavilion, and Kvasir strode through the fluttering drapes, instantly surrounded by a group of simpering nymphs, eyelashes fluttering, arch glances and coy smiles in play. “Kvasir! You haven’t visited us in so long – we thought you had forgotten us!” “Did you bring any gifts for us? You said you would.” “What do you think of my new dress?” “And my hair?” “I’ve been practicing my dancing, Kvasir; would you like to see?”

Kvasir laughed, his hands raised slightly to stem the flood of voices, “Now, now; of course I haven’t forgotten you! How could I? And how could you think such a thing of me?”

As Kvasir continued his attentions, Loki had to look away; the sight was truly puerile, and one he was far too familiar with as regards Thor. As he turned, he glanced around for Káta and found her watching Kvasir and her fellow nymphs with an expression of blatant disgust; the very shape of which Loki felt on his own face. He grinned cheerfully. Káta seemed to sense his eyes on her and glanced his way just as he averted his eyes.

Káta stared thoughtfully at Loki. The grin on his face was different from his usual smirk. It was a good deal less arrogant and more light hearted, and on the whole suited him better. She felt her own mouth tug slightly in an instinctive response to his smile, but quickly reined herself in; if she wasn’t careful she would start going down the same path as last time. She had panicked a little to begin with when she had first seen Loki approaching, for she felt herself strongly bound by her promise to Fróði, though she had felt increasingly regretful of it. Now, however, she had pulled herself together, and there was a difference in Loki that sparked a little nibbling doubt at her convictions regarding his character.

Her curiosity awakened, she couldn’t help but observe his appearance for a few moments more. He looked better than he had in the library – healthier; apparently the difference of a little over two weeks did a great deal of good. His face had filled out slightly so his cheeks, while still hollow, were no longer worryingly gaunt. His eyes had also lost the dangerous fanatic gleam, though they still burned with purpose and a longing hunger, albeit, Káta thought, a more positive one. The shadows that had hung so heavily beneath his eyes were no longer there, and his skin had lost its unhealthy pallor, and seemed smoother, more supple with a healthy fairness. Evidently he had been sleeping, and eating too, Káta thought, as her eyes wandered down over his body, taking in its new fullness, and the way his clothes no longer hung off him, but fitted nicely, if still a little loose in places.

Loki, seeming to feel her eyes upon him, turned once more to gaze at her as openly as she stared at him. Káta did not notice this for a few moments, her eyes fixed with some abstraction on his body. It was not until he tilted his head to one side that she caught the movement in her peripheral vision and looked up to his face. As their eyes met, both questioning, Loki smiled faintly and Káta flushed, her expression suddenly mortified. Quickly, she turned away, her cheeks flaming, although her mind was alight with speculations. As she began passing Runá the flowers as she asked for them, Káta kept her eyes fixed down on her lap, and refused to look up to check whether Loki was still watching her, which, she felt sure he was.

Loki was indeed watching Káta, finding her as fascinating to watch as she had him. To begin with he couldn’t help but glance at her every few moments, having expected her to look back over her shoulder to see what he was doing, and not wishing to be caught out. However, her decided application to her task and the fixed set of her head made him feel sure that she was too embarrassed at being caught staring at him to look again, and it emboldened him. He liked the combination the colour of her dress made with her skin and hair and eyes, and couldn’t restrain himself from imagining her dressed in his colours. It was a delicious thought. He smiled again, much more broadly.

Loki was not to be left to his internal wanderings, however. Eventually Kvasir seemed to remember his presence, and turned, one arm wrapping around Loki’s shoulders in a fatherly fashion as he roped Loki into the circle of his giggling and breathless admirers. The nymphs, who up until then had only paid Loki the smallest amount of attention (and that had been only to categorise him as ill-favoured, excessively pale, and too thin) now fell silent, the more intelligent ones wondering why Kvasir had brought such a creature with him, the less intelligent why they had been temporarily abandoned by Kvasir, and all how they could get out of having to accompany this skinny new individual.

“This is a young friend of mine, my dears,” Kvasir said, “I very much hope you will make him feel welcome.” He grinned.

Káta glanced up at the sound of Kvasir’s voice, her curiosity getting the better of her once more. She noted the nymphs’ expressions, which ranged from poorly disguised disgust to blatant distaste, frowning. The new softening of her heart towards Loki extended her pity towards him; she did not think he deserved to be made prey to the vices of the nymphs, regardless of what his true character was, whatever it might be. She knew all of the nymphs’ expressions well, for often than not she was their main recipient, though she had long ago learnt to ignore them.

“Your name, kind stranger?” Asked Spana – a particularly vicious though attractive nymph Káta was unfortunately known to – though she spoke with a sweet civility Káta knew to be imposed on by Kvasir’s presence.

“You don’t know who he is?” Cried Kvasir with a little too much theatricality to be utterly sincere. “This is Prince Loki! Loki Odinsson!”

The nymph’s faces became a rapid patchwork of emotions. All had heard the fearful tales of the Trickster God, and it showed in their expressions before being governed by the thought that flirting with, and perhaps bedding, a Prince of Asgard might do them no harm – particularly if he brought any of his brothers with him; specifically Thor. They all smiled prettily, coyly primping their curled hair and batting their lashes over seductive side glances. Spana and her two sisters, Lúta and Róta, who were the principle ringleaders of the nymphs and who disliked Káta the most, exchanged meaningful glances, an unpleasantly scheming light sparking in their cold beautiful eyes.

The damage was done, however, and Loki had expected little more than that which they had given. He knew exactly what had run through their minds, and was not prepared to be taken in by their suddenly inviting manner.

Káta frowned at Loki’s lack of reactivity, and Fróði’s request again came back to her. With a renewed interest she watched the interchange, expecting Loki to treat the nymphs to the same scorching personality he had turned upon her. She was surprised, however, to see his head dip slightly, and though his back remained straight in perfect posture, his shoulders fell. She ached to see his expression, for from behind she read him to be a picture of expected desolation at the nymph’s reactions. Perhaps Fróði was right after all. Up until that moment she had been struggling with her promise to give Loki a chance, and she had been wavering; but this had made up her mind for her. Now she thought that it might actually be worth her while, especially when she recalled the glimpses she had thought she had seen of Loki’s soul.

Now she felt compelled towards him, if there was something there, inside Loki, as she thought there was, she felt bound to find it and help it to the surface.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enter the nymphs! More about them in the next chapter...
> 
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	10. Gods and Nymphs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki discovers he quite enjoys spending time down at the nymph's hall...just so he can watch Káta and learn more about her, and Káta is not voicing any objections... His plans to allay certain jealous concerns one day are interrupted by his mother, however.

“Let me introduce you, Prince Loki;” Kvasir said, taking Loki by the shoulders once more. The nymphs eagerly rearranged themselves, standing in attitudes that best displayed their chief attributes. “This is Grélaða,” an invitingly pretty soft featured nymph with waving fawn brown hair in a pale orange kirtle dipped her head and smiled at Loki, “this is Sigríðr,” a nymph who looked uncannily like a Valkyrie in a gleaming silver embroidered dress smiled a confident flashing smile accompanied by a wink of her dark challenging eyes. “Áfríðr,” Kvasir gestured towards a rosy cheeked nymph with masses of curling red hair and sparkling blue eyes who smiled at Loki from beneath lowered lashes, “and finally; the famed Nipt Þrír – the Three Sisters.” Kvasir presented three nymphs, all of whom were taller than those that had gone before, and had long flowing silvery gold hair. “This is Róta; she is the youngest,” Kvasir gestured to the shortest of the three, whose gently waved tresses were pulled back from her face by an intricate gold net and whose slim form was clad in a sleek white kirtle, she smiled secretively at Loki, her dove grey eyes mysterious and coyly seducing. “This is Lúta; she is in the middle,” the nymph next in height made a low curtsey to Loki, her pale gold dress pooling at her ankles, her distant grey eyes lowered between the curling wings of her shining hair that fell forwards, barely restrained by the pearl encrusted snood she wore. “And _this_ , is Spana,” Kvasir gestured towards the eldest nymph sister as a jeweller his finest gem. The nymph was the tallest yet, taller than Loki and Kvasir, she gazed down at the young Prince with eyes as grey as those of her sisters’, although hers were harder, more calculating, and imperious. She wore a sweeping pale blue dress, and her perfectly straight hair was held in place by a thin circlet of finely woven bands of gold. She barely inclined her chin to Loki, her eyes locked on his, speaking the merest hint of enticing provocation.

“Done!” Exclaimed Runá triumphantly, standing up to view her handiwork. “Stand up, Káta.” Loki, his inattentive attention diverted from the nymphs before him, turned to gaze upon Káta, who had acquiesced and unfolded herself, gracefully rising and turning as she did so in order to face her friend. Her hair was caught up in a series of ribbon entwined braids and plaits that twisted about each other and were coiled about themselves. The tiny flowers that were carefully threaded through the plaits stood out like coloured stars against the shining loops and coils of the rich night of her hair. Runá was beaming widely and clapped her hands slightly, “Spin again.” She cried.

Káta obliged spinning and spinning, moving fast enough that her skirt flared out in a golden green fan like the upside down trumpet of a flower, and Runá in her delight at how well the style looked, took up the rest of the flowers and tossed them into the air above them.

As she slowed her turning, Káta glanced at Loki over her shoulder, curious and anxious to see how he was dealing with Spana and her followers. He was gazing at her, his lips slightly parted, looking as a human might if one of the gods materialised visible in their midst. Káta stopped, and smiled at him through the twisting rain of flower petals. As Runá had worked on her hair Káta had decided that the best way to help Loki was to become his friend, and showing him kindnesses was the only way she knew to achieve it.

For his part, Loki’s mind was sent spinning on its axis by the mere sight of the natural simplicity of her beauty, but the smile melted something hard in the region of his chest and released a warm glow from the same place. It was clear that whatever her expression when she had first seen him coming towards the pavilion, her attitude had changed dramatically since. Unselfconsciously, he smiled back, his eyes soft.

Káta’s smile widened at the sight of Loki’s; perhaps it would not be as difficult helping him as she had thought.

 

After that it became something of a routine for Loki to come down to Mærsalr either late in the morning or in the early afternoon, more often than not in the company of Kvasir. A spot was chosen within the circle of a small shady ash grove on the edge of a modest lake, and Spana and her select group of nymphs would swarm about Kvasir and the prince, keen to entertain and plying them with goblets of rich mead and platters of fruit and honey cakes. Káta always contrived to be nearby somehow, whether she was by herself reading a book against a nearby tree, or accompanied by Runá, whose interest in Kvasir was a perfect excuse to be near Loki and hence part of the throng of nymphs about them.

For his part, Loki had tired of the nymphs and their wiles very quickly. Their simpering smiles and eyelash batting glances held little pleasure for him, for he had easily discerned the ulterior motive behind their agreeableness. Their tricks he found simple and petty, and generally were the same deception dressed up differently, and even their songs and dances were not to his taste. The nymphs all seemed to take their cues from Spana and her sisters, who were all too ready to laugh at others misfortune with a somewhat sharp, vindictive tone in their tinkling giggles. They made excellent subjects upon whom to play tricks on, however, offering themselves up all too readily as fodder for his latest concoctions, seeking to please him, although there was always a slight glimmer of fear in their eyes as they did so, justly feeling wary of the hard gleam in his eyes. His mind at last lifted from its deadly preoccupation and fixated on the subject of Káta, Loki had returned to crafting his tricks to the extent that the gods and goddesses of Valhalla were having to get back into the broken routine of dodging and negating the habitual traps Loki left in place for them, and many were unpleasantly surprised by the sudden continuation of tricks that had ceased for weeks.

Loki also discovered within a few minutes that his wit and games of riddles were entirely lost upon the nymphs, for whilst they were cunning in the arts of seduction, diversions of wordplay and intellect were entirely beyond their understanding. However, Loki persevered for the reward of seeing the secret amused smile on Káta’s face or the mouthed answer to a riddle, for it was soon clear that she listened attentively to the conversations that passed, despite appearing deeply immersed in whatever activity was her apparent occupation for the day. He enjoyed those moments, feeling as though they were sharing some secret joke or conversation, for he was yet to figure out how to move closer and become on speaking terms, still a little wary and unsure of himself. The memories Loki prized above all the rest, however, were those that occurred only when Runá was there, for then Káta would join the other nymphs with her (although judging by their expressions and behaviour, led by Spana and her sisters, Káta and her friend were a disliked quantity and the feeling was mutual), and Káta, goaded beyond restraint would burst out with the answer to a riddle that had been vexing the other nymphs for some time, or flick back his banter with an easy parry of verbal eloquence or sweetly acerbic wit that none of the others comprehended, but which Kvasir often applauded appreciatively.

Several times Kvasir decided to try his luck with the nymph – each time putting Loki’s self-control through an extremely severe test. He did not need to worry, however, for Káta looked with as little favour on the God of Inspiration as she had the first time Loki had seen her in the library. With each encounter she displayed a little more of her wit and vivacity, and (that which Loki enjoyed the most) her fearless impudence and willingness to fight back without giving quarter in spiralling duels of jesting and serious intellect by turns. Kvasir, Loki very quickly discovered, had no serious designs on Káta beyond attempting to wind her around his finger the same way he had all the other nymphs, just as one might attempt to acquire the last trophy out of habit – for she was the only one to resist his charms – but enjoyed the verbal battles, even if it meant that his pride received some bruises. Indeed, it was soon apparent that Kvasir enjoyed goading the perspicacious nymph just as much as she enjoyed responding, although there were moments when Kvasir went too far and was sternly rebuffed, the punishment most often being ignored for several days.

In this Loki could see easily why there was a good deal of dislike felt by Spana and her fellows for Káta, for she could effortlessly command the undivided attention of gods such as Kvasir who thrived on wit and verbal repartee without any intention to do so, for she appeared to take part purely for her own pleasure, and not with any aim of amusing her partner. The others could do nothing but wait while they were shelved to one side until the discussion had finished, and they could reclaim Kvasir’s attention. Furthermore, Káta did not always grant her participation, choosing to engage in the circumlocutions of the verbal maze offered her if she felt like it, rather than providing her attention on tap as the other nymphs did.

It was after the second occurrence of these bantering duels that Loki asked Kvasir to tell him more about the nymphs as they returned to Valhalla. The information Kvasir imparted on the other nymphs Loki largely dismissed due to a complete and utter lack of interest, although some small facts he did retain. When Kvasir came to Káta, however, his entire attention was focussed sharply on the god’s words.

“Káta’s a funny sort of a nymph,” Kvasir commented as they walked leisurely up the smooth alabaster paved path. “In fact there are times when I’m not even sure if she _is_ a nymph.” Loki’s brows twitched with interest. “I mean,” Kvasir continued in an explanatory manner, “most of the nymphs there aren’t full blooded. In fact most of them are illegitimate demigoddesses – that’s part of the reason why Spana, Lúta and Róta are so tall; they aren’t of mixed parentage: pure nymphs – but Káta...” Kvasir exhaled and frowned. Loki was internally pleased; evidently the topic of Káta was an excellent one to engage Kvasir in and a matter to which he had devoted some considerable deliberation. “She behaves utterly like any nymph I’ve ever met; she doesn’t even look like them, and no one knows anything about her parentage.” Loki frowned.

“So…what? She was an orphan?” He asked.

“No, no, no;” replied Kvasir fussily, a little irritated at having the flow of his thoughts disrupted, for his tone had taken on that of a person thinking aloud. “I’m sure Freyja knows _something_ but whenever I’ve asked her she’s been irritatingly tight lipped about the matter – and as for Sjöfn,” Kvasir snorted slightly, “Káta’s never been enamoured of what she does in terms of encouraging the other nymphs, and so she has no interest in Káta.”

“So where did she come from?” Loki asked, as confused as Kvasir.

“I don’t know.” Kvasir spoke the words with great reluctance. “She appeared at the Hall a little over three years ago; came through the Álfheimr Gate apparently. Freyja had obviously expected her arrival, and Káta hasn’t told anyone about where she came from.” Loki paused for a moment, his mind exploding with curiosity to discover the answer to his next question, but also full of apprehension.

“There are no gods that are in her confidence, then?” He asked unconcernedly.

Kvasir shook his head. “No. Ask any other nymph to tell you something and they’ll speak any secret they know that you could wish for; but Káta doesn’t. She won’t share anything about herself, and she won’t share what others tell her if it’s a secret – she knows how to keep her word, and I don’t think there is anything that will make her break it; that’s another difference.

“When she first came she wasn’t quite so sure of herself, though, and _far_ too trusting; she was less canny – you could see it in her eyes; astounded innocence – like she had never known anything the like of Asgard had ever existed. And of course, being naïve like that around the nymphs is never a good idea; it’s like putting a lamb amongst wolves.”

Loki snorted slightly – that was certainly an understatement. For disenchanted as he was with the nymphs, he had not been unobservant, and had soon identified the power plays going on amongst them, as well as recognising their manipulative talents. Kvasir spared him a passing glance, but did not pursue the matter.

“In the beginning there were times when she was like a caged wild bird; the utter lack of comprehension of what was going on around her, the way certain things were done.” Kvasir frowned. “I don’t know what happened, but she learnt very quickly how to survive. The other nymphs have never liked her much; too different I expect – and Spana has never managed to give me an entirely satisfactory answer about what happened to make her change so quickly. Jealousy, very probably – they all wish to be the centre of my attention; it’s only natural.” Kvasir preened himself absently whilst Loki made a face. “But she picked up the methods of the others; though I’ve never yet seen her use them except if she’s playing tricks on people.”

“She plays tricks?” Loki asked innocently, keen to keep his prior knowledge and meeting of Káta a secret, though he could not quash the note of pleased interest from the question.

“Oh, yes.” Kvasir replied expansively. “Not a patch on you, of course,” he said with a jovial laugh, “but she certainly has imagination. She knows how to go in for the long haul; in fact I’ve been expecting her to do something to Ullr for a long time now.” Loki’s expectant silence and expression were question enough. “He’s the only god to come down that she hasn’t played a trick on; quite the reverse in fact. Sometimes she rescues him from the other nymphs – it’s very amusing to watch really; they get quite upset when you know what makes them tick, and Káta’s fully aware of how to hook and sink most. I don’t know what she does with him afterwards, though; disappears off somewhere.” Kvasir gave Loki a suggestive and sidelong glance. Loki frowned, and the Kvasir’s eyes were sharp enough to catch the slight flash of anger in the young god’s eyes. He turned away, internally smiling, before passing on to other, less dangerous areas of conversation.

 

Kvasir’s observation did not go unreported. The moment he had farewelled the prince, Kvasir hurried to Frigg’s audience chambers in her halls to impart the news. Frigg, although surprised to find that Loki had finally begun to settle his heart upon someone, was pleased that the explanation of his behaviour was such a simple one – for she had not quite been able to entirely believe Thor’s offhand report of the occurrences in the library. Kvasir’s identification of the nymph in question was of greater interest to Frigg than the information regarding her reticence with all the gods which followed. She recognised the name of the nymph instantly, knowing who and what she truly was, and wondering whether her vision regarding the girl and the good that she was to do in Asgard had anything to do with Loki. It was a hope that Frigg was very keen to realise.

 

Loki’s plans to go down to the nymph’s hall the next morning were temporarily delayed by the presence of Gná in his rooms when he woke. He had slept peacefully for the first time in many years, lulled into golden dreams by the memory of Káta’s smiles and laughter, but at the sight of the handmaiden standing by his doors the ill humour of the previous weeks returned to him abruptly. He scowled fiercely at her from the middle of his bed. Gná was not frightened of Loki; she generally ignored him, but when ordered into a confrontation with him she regarded him with vague distaste. Usually she would have masked her feelings more competently, but she had been summoned in the pre-dawn hours of the morning by Frigg, and told to go to Loki’s rooms and bring him to Fensalir; if he was asleep she was to wait. It had been long and boring, and she had been sorely tempted to abandon her task when, in passing the opened doors of Bilskirnir on her way to Loki, she had glimpsed Thor in his nightshirt, drinking mead before his hearth.

The ill temper and distaste on Gná’s face did little to improve Loki’s mood. Gná he detested above all of his mother’s handmaidens, due to her unending obsession with Thor; the revulsion she felt and showed for him was not special or in any way particularly aggravating for him – it was merely a norm that he dealt with.

“What?” He demanded, glaring at her.

“Your mother desires your presence the moment you are dressed.” She replied, a little sulkily. Loki rolled his eyes and waved a hand; such a summons was inevitable given his behaviour of the week’s previous – indeed he was surprised it had not come sooner.

“Fine; I’ll be there – now _go_.” He replied shortly, flicking his fingers in a dismissive gesture towards the door. Gná shook her head stubbornly.

“Your mother was insistent that I accompany you.” Loki restrained a growl of impatience, grinding his teeth.

“I wish to dress.” He replied icily. Gná frowned.

“Just magic your clothes on, then.” She replied; Loki, she knew, was fond of displaying his magic. Loki narrowed his eyes. He could of course, simply have materialised his clothes onto his body in an instant. But he was feeling contrary, and decided he would dress himself by hand, and linger in doing so, simply to take as much time as possible. His mother’s summons had interfered with his plans (for before sleeping the previous night he had lain awake atop his bed clothes plotting the best way to go about his interrogation of Ullr), and he didn’t know exactly how long they would continue to do so – he wasn’t going to come running to her willingly; he wasn’t a lapdog, like Thor. Much as he cared for her, at this point in time her summons was an unwelcome interruption in his own master plan, and a distasteful delay from seeing Káta. He was determined to dig his heels in as much as possible; even if it was only to prove a point. He regarded Gná for a moment, then shrugged.

“Fine; stay if you like.” He replied. The change in his tone was so sudden that Gná immediately felt her suspicions rising. Carelessly, Loki flipped back his sheets and climbed out of bed, turning his back to the handmaiden and snapping his fingers as he did so. His nightclothes vanished, and he continued walking on towards the chests he kept his clothes in, not so much as glancing over his shoulder to catch sight of the red face of the handmaiden. Gná, goddess though she was, had flushed a bright mortified shade of pink at the sudden indecency. Quickly she turned, angrily fumbling for the door handle, and muttered that she would be in the ante-chamber to his halls.

Loki smirked.

 

Several hours later – during which Loki had dressed himself, gone out to his dining hall, summoned a platter from the kitchens and eaten leisurely private breakfast, while Gná had stood with growing irritation beyond the doors to his halls, not wanting to go back in to see what was going on for fear that Loki was waiting for her to do so still unclothed – Loki stood before his mother, Gná pink with anger.

Frigg gazed at her younger son shrewdly. It was obvious to all from the colour and expression of Gná’s face that Loki had been exercising his mischief upon her – an observation that was only reinforced by a glance to Loki’s own face, which was smugly triumphant. Frigg had to restrain a smile of her own at the sight. It was welcome. She didn’t mind Loki riling her handmaidens once in a while – that was inevitable, and trying to stop him from doing so was like trying to prevent the tide from coming in, besides which, all the gods and goddesses had their turn at being the focus of Loki’s mischievous attentions. At that moment she wouldn’t have cared if Gná had come in with her skirts singed (an escapade that Loki had put into practice upon another, less fortunate goddess, which had earned him a severe dressing down); the playful twinkle in Loki’s eye was back, and for better or for worse, Frigg was glad that it was so.

With a nod and a wave she dismissed her handmaidens, largely to give poor Gná some little respite, and Loki remained before her, his face at once roguish, expectantly resigned, and oddly impatient.

“You have been particularly quiet of late, my son,” Frigg began.

Loki said nothing, though his eyes narrowed slightly. Frigg paused, noticing the suspicions that were starting to rise in her son’s expression.

“I hope you will be happy.”  She said. Loki’s frown changed from chary scrutiny to one of confusion. “And I hope too that in time she will return your affections.” Loki’s brows flew up.

“I’m not in love.” He replied blankly. Frigg’s brow crinkled slightly, though her eyes were smiling.

“Very well, my son,” she replied. “Go, be about your business.”

 

Loki was still frowning as he made his way down to Mærsalr. The audience with his mother had left him somewhat baffled. It was the work of an instant for him to connect the dots between Kvasir and his mother, but how Kvasir had managed to delude himself into thinking that he, Loki, was in love, was utterly beyond him. Loki knew that there was no way possible that he was in love with Káta – was it not possible for a god to be interested in a nymph – or a female at any rate – simply because she was interesting and could be a friend? Did bodily intent have to worm its way into everything? Loki huffed irritatedly as he marched along, sure that Thor’s stupid actions in the library had sown the seed for this idiotic idea that was now circling the minds of his family, and goodness knew how many others.

He did not allow himself to dwell on the matter, however, for there was the more important task of finding Ullr in hand, and Loki was determined to uncover exactly what relationship Káta had with the god.

It did not take him especially long to find the god, for in his impatience Loki had taken to dematerialising and rematerializing every fifty yards or so, and he came across Ullr, dripping wet, as he exited the nymph’s pavilion. Hailing the god with a somewhat quizzical expression, Loki led him about a walk of the gardens.

“How well do you know Káta?” Loki, his patience having reached as far as he could stretch it, asked the question point blank, barely prefacing it with sufficient conversation to ensure that Ullr walked with him. He had no concerns about Ullr forming suspicions about his interest in the nymph; in fact, quite the opposite, Loki had faint anxieties about Ullr’s capacity to form thoughts. The muscular young god was entirely forthcoming, however, and shrugged wetly, the movement sending a spray of water droplets across the ground.

“Quite well, I suppose,” he replied, “she’s very nice,” he smiled gently and Loki began to see why Káta was yet to spring a trick on Ullr; it would be like teasing an ancient and loyal family hound by putting its food out of reach when it found it painful to move. “She says that she rescues me from the other nymphs and then she asks me questions and we just talk. Of course,” Ullr laughed a little awkwardly, “I don’t understand what she talks about most of the time – lots of stuff about orchards, and how she doesn’t like the nymphs, and other tricky things that make her laugh – but she’s very kind.” Ullr smiled his sweetly simple smile again, and Loki nodded absently. Ullr lacked the cunning to lie; Loki knew that within moments of meeting him, and before they had parted ways he was internally humming with satisfaction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the nymphs are, of course, OCs:  
> Spana translates as 'to provoke or allure'  
> Lúta translates as 'to lout' 'to bow down' or 'to pay homage'  
> Róta translates as 'to stir, overturn, tear' or 'bring disorder'  
> Grélaða translates as 'bidding' or 'invitation'  
> Sigríðr translates as 'victory' or 'conquest' and 'beautiful, beloved' or 'to love'  
> Áfríðr translates as 'all' or 'from' and 'beautiful in the sense of beloved' or 'to love'
> 
> I tried to give them personalities and appearances that matched with my ideas of what their names meant, and what images the meanings provoked in my mind.
> 
> And, oh dear, Loki - you're getting jealous... ^^
> 
> Also, if you like this story, or any of my other ones, and you want access to sneak previews on chapters that I'm working on, Like my Facebook page, or Follow my Twitter :)  
> https://www.facebook.com/josephinetomkinsauthor  
> https://twitter.com/jtomkinsauthor


	11. A Hunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spana and her sisters are unwilling to let their chances at scaling the social ladder of Asgard slip through their fingers because of Káta, and Loki discovers just what it means to cross a pure-blooded nymph.

Káta made her way idly down to the ash grove, a book in hand, humming to herself as she ran her free hand over and through the bushes and plants she passed. Runá was occupied with creating a new hairstyle, and so she had resigned herself to a day without enjoying any verbal jousting with Loki, and merely to keeping watchful eye and a sharp ear out over him. She had to admit that Fróði had been right. Whilst there were times when she didn’t exactly like the way the prince behaved, she had begun to see much more of his hidden personality. She could tell from the expression in his green eyes that he was distinctly repulsed by the behaviour of the nymphs (a fact which pleased her no end) and was completely unenchanted by their various wiles. Even their tricks didn’t seem to find much favour with him, and Káta found it pleasing to note such things, hoping strongly that she was right in her deductions that it shed a little light on the goodness that flickered in and out of sight in his personality.

She was pleased that her efforts in attempting to establish some sort of contact with Loki appeared to be working. Usually she would have simply introduced herself to the person she intended to help, but with Loki she had felt certain that the usual way of doing things was not going to get her very far. He did, however, seem to be warming to her. Often she would look up from what she was doing, or turn her head, and catch him staring at her with a particular fixed look upon his face. He always looked away when he realised that she had seen him, and Káta was willing to swear that there were times when she could just make out a tiny and seemingly irrepressible smile playing about his mouth as he pretended to be engrossed in something else. She liked seeing that smile; it brightened his whole face, and there was something distinctly sweet about it that made her own mouth want to reciprocate the gesture, even as her heart felt like it was whizzing around in dizzying spirals inside her chest.

 

The ash grove was unoccupied when she reached it, and Káta settled down to read her book. She knew the nymphs and Loki would be coming along soon, and by the time they had arrived she was deeply engrossed in the tale. She frowned slightly as the metallic tinkling laughs of Spana, Lúta, and Róta interrupted her reading, glancing up over the top of the pages to observe the advancing group.

Her brows twitched in faint surprise as she noted the absence of Kvasir, though her eyes soon fixed on Loki as though magnetised to his form. As the group neared, his eyes met hers, and there was a gentle welcoming in them that elicited a small sweet smile from her, their eyes remaining locked. Whatever moment of gentle stillness that they had been sharing was abruptly shattered as Róta danced across Káta’s field of vision, snatching the book out of her unsuspecting hands. The other nymphs cosseted Loki, patting the plump cushions laid out on the ground so that he sat amongst them with faintly concealed reluctance.

“Why is it that you always have your nose buried in a book, little Káta?” Róta asked laughingly, dancing away from Káta as she gazed up, frowning, though she remained seated. Spana let out a vicious little laugh, her eyes twinkling maliciously. Káta knew that it was Kvasir’s absence that had put them in this mood, and the fact that they were now having to entertain Loki – a god on whom none of them looked with favour.

Spana had quickly realised Loki’s distaste for the nymphs, for she was more observant than most and canny, and his veiled attention towards Káta had not gone unnoticed. She knew that there would be no pathway through him to Thor unless she could change his attitude towards herself and her sisters, and that she would need to come up with a plan very soon if they were to stand any chance of scaling the social ranking through the prince. If Loki was not to be moved, however, he would lose any of the potential value he had previously held to her. She was already beginning to feel that he would be a waste of her time, but Spana was tenacious, and she could see just enough possibility in pursuing Loki to make the effort worth her while. She was a particularly ambitious individual, and she was not one to let circumstance stand in her way.

Káta knew that she was also likely to be even less in Spana’s favour than usual, for Kvasir had been in a jesting and loquacious mood of late, as had she, and he had quite ignored Spana and her sisters in the past few days.

“Yes, little Káta, our _dear_ apple girl, why do you neglect yourself so much?” Spana added, her cunning mind having concocted a scheme to show off her own wit before Loki in a last attempt to bring him under her influence – she was unaccustomed to her charms being resisted, and resented Káta deeply for taking Kvasir’s attentions away from her. She turned to Loki with a conspiring laugh, “She’s such a strange little thing,” glancing at him to gauge his reaction, and moving towards Káta decisively when she saw that his face had twitched in response, encouraged by the fact that he was paying attention, although she had unknowingly misconstrued his opinion on the matter. Putting out a hand Spana tugged at several locks of Káta’s long dark hair, which was loose and free flowing, although not quite hard enough for it to hurt. “Your hair has become quite dry and limp – perhaps you are becoming a book!” There was a general round of tittering laughter amongst the nymphs, many of them finding the joke far more amusing that it was, and shielding their mouths behind their hands as they watched the taunting progress. Káta’s frown deepened.

Loki watched the proceedings with a slight frown of concern between his brows, his eyes flashing between Káta and the Nipt Þrír, focusing particularly on the still circling Spana. He had been on enough hunts to recognise the toying prowl of a predator, and there was a peculiar charge of blood lust in the air, the pack mentality of the group more evident than usual. It was a distinctly unsettling atmosphere to be in, and it was only Káta’s superior though irked expression that prevented Loki from interfering. He knew her nature well enough now to know that had she been truly upset by the nymphs’ comments, she would not stay her tongue against speaking her thoughts. He remained watchful, however, his eyes flickering between Káta and Spana, observing the power play going on between them.

Most of the other nymphs had begun to become somewhat restless, like beasts caged over long, and their attention was quickly moving to focus on what was transpiring between the three sisters and Káta. Loki sat forgotten by nearly all; only Spana still held him in mind.

“A true nymph’s hair would never do such a thing,” Spana proclaimed with a flick of her own shining locks. Another ripple of snickering rose from the nymphs, though it was less pronounced than the first had been. Loki smirked inwardly, knowing the cause for their slight reticence. “But then, of course, you are not a true nymph, are you?” Spana said, shooting a small smile of triumphant vindictiveness at Loki, sure that the discovery of Káta’s lack of pedigree would displease him, and perhaps allow her and her sisters to worm their way into his affection. Loki, however, did not appear to look in anyway displeased. On the contrary, interest gleamed in his green eyes, and he was watching what was going on attentively. A little thrown by his reaction, but nevertheless gratified that she was holding his attention, Spana turned her thoughts back to the perusal of Káta and just how she was going to peel back her skin of protection; her tongue was a sharp knife, but she required just the right words if she was to hone it to an edge of perfection.

“What _are_ you, little Káta?” Asked Róta, who had been hovering with a vicious expression of bloodthirsty anticipation behind her elder sister, her fingers twitching with poorly contained eagerness. She, too, began to circle Káta, her hard grey eyes flashing with the thrill of the hunt.

“Yes, tell us all,” Spana continued. “We’ve been _dying_ to know what you are since you arrived; we all know that you are not a nymph in any way.” She moved in close to Káta, closing her eyes momentarily as she inhaled deeply. “You do not carry the scent of a nymph; our blood is not in your blood. We _always_ know our own.” Spana gazed viciously into Káta’s eyes; the steely grey boring into the stern gold. Their faces were nearly touching, and Spana’s teeth were slightly bared, her lip curling. It did not seem that either was going to give way, until Spana’s upper lip twitched slightly, and she ripped away, returning to circling with a snap of flying silk.

Káta, who had been watching Spana and Róta with faintly narrowed eyes, looked away, her expression unperturbed and supremely untouchable. “Those who unwittingly play with fire are like to get their fingers burned, Spana,” she replied in a warningly calm tone, “it would be best for you not to meddle with that which you do not know.”

“And what is it about you that we don’t know?” Lúta at last spoke, moving out from the shadows of the ashes where she had been watching, her voice low and condescending. “Do enlighten us,” she said with a low, mock bow. The rising air of tension that had filled the glade was temporarily alleviated as the nymphs broke into tinkling laughter at the gesture.

Káta merely sat, holding the hard half-lidded gaze of Lúta. She was the most often forgotten and discounted of the Nipt Þrír, but she was by no means to be taken out of the reckoning when dealing with the sisters. She was not as uncontrolled as Róta, who was always raring to go when it came to spiteful teasing, and her quiet observation often allowed her to figure out which weakness was best to target.

“You tell me, Lúta,” she replied. Lúta twitched an eyebrow, and began to move in slow circles around Káta, joining her sisters.

“You know what we want to know, little apple girl.” Spana said silkily. “We want to know who you are, what you are, what your parentage is. We want to know what the _taint_ in your scent is – you do not smell of the Nine Worlds; you are not of the Nine Worlds, so what _are_ you?”

Loki frowned at Spana’s words. He knew there was no way that Káta could be a full-blooded nymph, and ever since his talk with Kvasir he had been having doubts as to whether she was a nymph at all, and instead perhaps a demi-goddess, but to say that she was not born of the Nine Worlds was an impossibility. He watched Káta carefully. Judging by her expression, she had completely forgotten his presence, for her attention was focused only on the three nymphs that now stood before her, a singly pugnacious expression on her face.

“Why do you want to know this so badly, Spana?” Káta asked with false sweetness. “Is it because none of you know your own parentage?”

Her words had clearly struck a nerve, Loki could tell, for Spana and her sisters let out angry hissing noises, whilst the rest of the nymph’s expressions were transformed from vindictive enjoyment to savage fury. He was confused for a moment, his mind drawing a blank on the existence of male nymphs, and thinking that Fróði would probably remonstrate him for such a lapse of knowledge. The thought tickled his conscience, and he admitted that he probably owed the old god a visit with some explanation, given his behaviour of the past weeks.

Spana drew herself up imperiously. “We do not _need_ to know the line of our fathers to know the purity of our blood line.” She stared down at Káta, who gave all the other nymphs a decidedly challenging glance, her brows raised, and Loki could tell that Spana was pointedly avoiding looking at her hybrid fellows. The corner of his mouth curled in faint amusement.

“Well, just as you do not need to know your own heritage, nor do you need to know mine.” Káta said calmly. She put out her hand. “Return me my book, Róta.” She eyed the youngest of the sisters sternly. “You have no need or interest in it.”

Róta returned the stare with a look of malicious anger, her mouth curled in a vindictive little smile. “Maybe _you_ don’t know your parentage,” she said, her smile widening as Káta’s eyes narrowed. “Maybe you’re a nobody of such little importance to anyone in or beyond the Nine Worlds that they had no better use for you than to abandon you. A nobody upon whom Freyja took pity.” Loki could see that something in the nymph’s words had touched a nerve with Káta, and Róta knew it too. She continued on, beginning to pace back and forth before Káta like a restless predator impatiently waiting for the kill, but delighting in taunting its prey with the indecision of when it was going to strike. “Maybe that’s why you’re always reading these books,” Róta flipped open the book she was holding, idly leafing through it, “to try to find out who you are.” She grasped several pages and tore them out with a bloodthirsty flourish, relinquishing her grip on them the moment they had parted company with their fellows, and letting them fall to the ground like intricately patterned leaves.

Káta, who had been growing steadily angrier as Róta spoke, leapt up as she tore out the pages with a dismayed cry of outraged horror. It was clear from her expression that she wanted nothing more than to fly at the grinning, self-satisfied nymph before her, but that was not the way females settled disputes, and she was outnumbered in any case.

“Give-me-the-book, _Róta_.” Káta spoke the words calmly enough, but her fury had begun to grey her tone. “You do not know what you are talking about.”

Loki’s muscles tensed; the matter had finally gone too far, and he could see that Káta was beginning to lose the calm superiority that had let her control the situation thus far. Róta and her sisters could scent it, just as sharks can taste blood in the water, and he could see they were starting to close in once more.

Spana had been silent up until now, but her glittering grey eyes had been watching the exchange, her mouth at first in a serious line that later began to curve wider and wider into a nasty thin-lipped smile that Loki found disconcerting. The dynamic between the three was incredible to watch in action, although to do so was akin to watching a pack of wolves pick off their target and systematically bring it down. The thing about wolves, though, was that they didn’t tear their victim to shreds before moving in for the kill. The Nipt Þrír were different. Clever and vicious enough to indulge themselves in cruel little games, stringing things along until they had satisfied whatever desire of malicious puppeteering had begun the entire situation. Lúta was the most reserved of the three, constantly observing, but with a cruel and mocking tongue. Spana clearly ruled the others, more out spoken than Lúta, but only to the extent required, for she excelled in manipulation, and it was often clear in her sometimes harsh behaviour towards Róta who it was that held the power. Róta was the most uncontrolled of the three; with a seemingly endless bloodlust, and difficult to control, although Spana had no qualms about brutally crushing her in order to reassert her authority.

“Or what?” Róta taunted. She was still grinning, confident in her position as the untouchable aggressor.

“You don’t know who you’re messing with, Róta,” Káta said warningly, and Loki knew that she was referring to Berghildr. The nymphs, however, could not be expected to even know the existence of the terrifying goddess, and it was of no surprise that no new realisation rose to their expressions. “Give me the book.”

Róta’s expression flickered slightly, a trace of confusion flitting across it before her confidence reasserted itself. With a challenging look, she grasped several more pages, her mouth widening in a vicious grin. Loki frowned slightly at the book.

Róta tugged at the pages. They remained fixed in their bindings.

Her smile faltered slightly, and a tiny frown appeared on her face. Loki allowed himself a small smirk of satisfaction.

Róta looked down at the book and pulled again. Káta, too, had a fleeting expression of confusion cross her face, before she recalled her more immediate concerns, watching Róta struggle and pull at the pages with a stern expression.

All the nymphs were staring at Káta now with a mixture of expressions. Spana’s eyes were narrowed, and although angry, a tiny spark of apprehension was glinting in her flinty eyes. Lúta, too, had a similar countenance, while Róta was glaring at Káta with an expression of dumbfounded frustration.

“She’s a seiðkona,” hissed Spana with an expression of faint fear at the realisation, “Vanir blood.” The other nymphs fell back a step, aware of Freyja’s connection to seiðr and the Vanir, and also that they had put themselves in a potentially dangerous position that could incur the goddess’s wrath on them.

Káta frowned slightly, confused as to how they had come to such a conclusion, but put the matter from her mind; if it made them fear her, then at least she might have some sort of reprieve from their less than enjoyable attentions. She put her hand out for the book wordlessly, and Róta practically thrust it into her hand. Then she gathered up the fallen pages, and marched off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you've probably noticed, the Nipt Þrír are quite vindictive, and sort of thrive on cruelty. I guess, retrospectively, they're sort of like the Veela in "Harry Potter" in that they have beautiful exteriors, but if you cross them you see their true personalities, and they are terrifyingly vicious.
> 
> Also, if you were wondering a seiðkona is sort of like a witch. Technically the term means 'a female practitioner of seiðr', and seiðr is the Nordic term for sorcery.
> 
> Also, if you like this story, or any of my other ones, and you want access to sneak previews on chapters that I'm working on, Like my Facebook page, or Follow my Twitter :)  
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	12. A Gesture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Troubled, Káta seeks refuge from her tormentors at her well. The God of Mischief, his curiosity ever paramount, and his concern beginning to grow, follows, and discovers more than he expected.  
> Unwitting gestures are made and received.

The nymphs’ minds were all so much on the idea that they might have affronted a close associate of Freyja, that they did not notice Loki melting away into nothingness amongst them. He reappeared, lying on a floating grey cloud of trailing smoke that followed high above Káta as she made her way to the stables, and then once mounted, through the city towards the Gate of Iða, and finally out across the great grassy plain itself, Loki’s curiosity growing all the time.

 

By the time she dismounted, and wove her way through the trees to her well, Káta was hot and cross. She flopped down heavily in the grass, and laid out the ruined book and pages before her to examine the damage.

It really could have been a lot worse, she supposed, for the pages had come away quite cleanly, although they were somewhat crinkled, and the book itself was none the worse for wear. She wondered a little over whatever it had been that had stopped Róta from ripping out more pages, but the matter was of small consequence, and her thoughts returned to the difficult issue of what she was going to say to Berghildr when she went to return the book.

Loki watched her huffing and frowning to herself from a conveniently placed tree, comfortably settled in the fork between several branches. He couldn’t help but admire the composure she had managed to keep throughout the majority of the confrontation with the nymphs, especially given the atmosphere. It was clear, too, that her current anger was regarding the damage done to the book, rather than any personal injury that the nymphs had done to her. Loki frowned a little, his head cocked to one side. She certainly was odd.

He looked about the clearing properly for the first time since arriving. It was wild and rather beautiful, and in some way he felt it to be a reflection of Káta herself; untamed and somehow lively in its calm silence. Káta was sitting in a modest sward of long green grass enclosed with trees that was flooded with the colour of tiny wildflowers, and off to one side through a thinning in a thicket of trees, Loki was fairly sure that there was a forest pool of some sort, if the glimmer of reflected dancing light that dappled the leaves and trunks of the trees over there was anything to go by. The whole place was soothingly calm, free of the sound of people, and instead given over to the gentle sounds of nature; the rush of the wind in the grass and leaves, the soft sounds of birds in the undergrowth, the faint ripple and slosh of wind-stirred water. Loki found himself beginning to doze, his eyelids becoming heavy, lulled into rest by the complete and releasing sense of freedom that the glade seemed to exude. He did not have to be anything here, he simply could _be_.

Loki was brought out of his drowsing by the frustrated exclamation of irritation that issued from Káta, who was still sitting where he had last seen her, but with her hands screwed up into her loose hair, making its already tumbling waves even more unruly.

He watched curiously as she got up and marched over to the gap in the trees, climbing between the branches and boughs to follow her through the canopy, and stopping short in surprise as she waded fully clothed into the still pool of clear green water beyond.

Káta dipped her whole head beneath the surface, pulling herself through the water, slowly resurfacing, her hair and face streaming with water, and expelling a great sigh that sent a bursting spray of tiny droplets winging through the air, sparkling as they flew. Wiping the water from her face Káta lay back, floating, and feeling the relaxing tug of the shifting flurries and eddies she had created pulling her hair this way and that, a silky dark cloud in the water. She closed her eyes, breathing deeply. She needed this. Just some calming time in her special place with the water to soothe her mind and wash away her cares.

Loki did not have any qualms about seeing naked women, and although Káta was clothed, he felt oddly as though he was intruding on something deeply private. Thinking it prudent, he shrouded himself in a net of invisibility, unable to look away from the captivating sight of Káta as she floated, utterly relaxed, in the water, a faint smile on her face, perfectly at ease within herself. Lazily, she opened her eyes, and began to move in gentle swirls about the pool, her garments streaming out behind her in the rippling water, her expression utterly focused on her internal thoughts, though somehow free of preoccupation at the same time, her movement becoming increasingly playful. Loki did not think he had ever seen anything more captivating. The carefree nature of her actions, their very artlessness, and her childlike enjoyment in them mesmerised the young god. He had not seen anyone take such simple delight in anything for a very long time, and it had been decades since he had been light-hearted enough to do so himself.

Káta laughed in light happiness as she spun, her toes barely brushing the bottom, kicking her legs to keep turning, her head tipped back so that she gazed up into the swirling crown of haloed leaves above her, her hair and clothes spinning out in a fan in the water around her. There was always something magical about being in water, about being enveloped in its gentle cool caress, and watching the play that light made on its rippling mirror-like surface. It made troubles impossible to think of, as though they were written out on a stone tablet below a undulating stream, and utterly illegible for flowing water, freeing her mind to float like flower petals in a lake in an idle state of ambient limbo.

She pulled herself about, moving with an effortless glide through the parting waters, spiralling and twirling about until she began to get dizzy. Pausing, Káta closed her eyes for a moment, stilling her whirling vision of the world, and then drifted over to the edge of the deep section where the curve of the bank came out into the pool, where her apple tree grew. Pulling herself up so that she rested in her usual position, chin on her crossed arms on the grassy edge of the bank, the sunlight sparkling on the water droplets that still clung to her skin, Káta gazed up at the growing golden apple, breathing in deep lungfuls of its glorious scent; fresh and sweet with a slight tang, and so full of life.

Loki, his fascination paramount, and his view obstructed by a particularly leafy branch, transformed into a small iridescent green bird and fluttered down to land on the edge of the clear patch of grass before Káta between a fork in the roots of the apple tree, his head cocked to one side as he stared at her.

Káta instantly focussed on the bird near her, smiling gently, and putting out an open hand. “Hello smár fugl,” she whispered softly, her eyes gentle. “I won’t hurt you, I promise.” Loki hopped a little, his head still tilted consideringly up at her. She looked huge now that he was this small, but it did nothing to change the kind earnestness in her expression. Tentatively, he hopped forwards, opening his wings to flutter over the root of the apple tree, and flaring his tail to keep his balance as he skipped to a halt close enough to touch her.

Káta watched the gradual progression of the bird as it hopped closer and closer, and began to hum the tune of a soft gentle song that the dryads in her mother’s orchards had taught her.

Loki paused, rigid, his sharpened hearing filled with the low thrumming sound of Káta’s voice. Dazedly, he hopped the last little distance onto her hand, some part of his mind charmed by the sound of the tune, his tiny claws wrapped tightly about her thumb.

Shifting her hand to bring the bird closer, Káta began to sing, quietly. The song was one for bringing out the birds, and the dryads in their time spent with the creatures had eventually figured out the favourite trills and warbling patterns that seemed common with some little variation across most of the birds they had come across, and then worked them into the song. The last time Káta had heard it sung, it had been by five of the sweetest voiced dryads in the orchards, and the sound and volume of it had been such that birds had burst out from the thickets, singing their own replies to the song, more and more coming until the air had been filled with the many colours of their feathers and burring flutter of their wings. Káta herself had merely stood with her arms held out, watching as birds began to land on her hands and arms, all the way up her shoulders and in her hair. The dryads that had been singing would have been festooned with the birds, but the power of the song was such that at least two feet of clear space surrounded the singers, the birds closest to the edge almost delirious from the sound, attempting to move closer, but becoming incapacitated by the strength of the affect the magic had over them in such proximity.

Loki had not heard such a sound in all his born days. There was a faint trace of magic in her voice, but he was not able to tell whether it was coming from Káta herself or from the song she was singing, which was thick with wild natural magic and called to the repressed primitive mind of the bird form that he currently inhabited. The lower notes, thrumming in her throat, seemed to enter his body like light passing through water, and stayed there, vibrating inside him. As the song continued, Loki felt the magic pulling the bird mind to the fore, until he was having difficulty in repressing it, his own thoughts and memories doubled over by that of a bird’s. A bell-like note left Káta’s lips, and Loki’s mind was momentarily overshadowed by that of the bird form, and then his proximity was too much to withstand.

Káta stopped singing abruptly with a gasp as the tiny bird toppled over, only just managing to cushion its fall with her hand. Its eyelids were fluttering as rapidly as its feathered breast rose and fell. The creature was piteously small, and immeasurably fragile and light in her hands. Guilt washed over her, for Káta knew full well that it was the magic in the song that had overcome the unsuspecting creature. Carefully, she carried her tiny burden cradled against her chest as she waded back through the water to the shallows near the sloping bank that she had entered by, and then walked out into the meadow, her clothes dripping.

The meadow had a slight gradient, and it was not difficult for Káta to find a small grassy hollow to lay the bird in as it recovered. She set it down, humming an aimless soothing tune, and giving the soft downy feathers of the bird’s head a gentle stroke before she sat back and settled herself in a sunny patch of grass.

 

Loki woke to the oddest feeling. He was lying on his back, but for some reason that felt wrong, and his arms were folded behind and under him. His mind was a confusing mixture of memories of pain and laughter tangled up with primitive urges to find worms and twigs for a nest, all overlapping one another in a bright haze of grass and sunlight and water. It was as though he had two minds instead of one, with the only things in common between the two the fuzzy images of a dark haired girl who glowed like the sun, tied together by a gentle humming that made him want to go back to sleep and stay awake at the same time. He opened his eyes, and scrambled about onto his front and legs, remembering where and what he was in an instant. He paused for a moment, taking in his changed surroundings and the grass beneath his feet. Káta loomed up above him a little distance away, her hair and clothes drying in the sun as she braided together a small circlet of grass stalks and wild flowers, her golden eyes resting on him, her voice still producing the sound he had woken to.

Káta watched the little bird as it began to stir, and the confused spiralling flurry it made as it rolled back onto its front and sprang to its feet, its tiny eyes regarding her with much more intelligence than she was used to seeing in birds, which were remarkably perspicacious creatures.

“I’m sorry, smár fugl,” she said softly, meeting the bird’s eyes before returning to the braid, her fingers deftly interweaving the grass and flowers. “I did not mean for you to be so affected by my song.” She finished the braid and laid it to one side in the grass, her eyes settling on the bird. “You must forgive me.” It remained opposite her, its head tilted once more. The bird fluttered forwards, and Káta’s expression of openness changed as she blinked in astonishment as the bird picked up the braided ring in its beak, and shot up and away into the air, disappearing amongst the sky and leaves.

Kata stared after it for a moment, then frowned a little as a tiny spot of colour appeared. A single iridescent green feather drifted down back along the bird’s trajectory, floating towards her. Káta lifted her hands, cupping it out of the air.

The feather was faintly downy, and soft where it brushed against her skin. Confused, Káta lay back in the grass, still fiddling with the feather and stretching out so that the sun could properly dry her still damp gown and hair.

Loki had returned to the trees, sitting in a fork between two branches, his back against the trunk, one leg bent, his hands resting against his knee. His eyes were preoccupied, and utterly focussed on the intricately braided ring that he kept turning in his fingers. No one in his entire life had ever apologised to him before, or asked for his forgiveness. He frowned, his thoughts endlessly circling, staring at the ring between his fingers, unmoving in the shadows as Káta dozed out in the sun beyond.

 

Káta woke to the touch of a balmy breeze whispering across her skin, ruffling the fluffy fringe of tousled curls that her hair had dried into. Opening her eyes, she found herself gazing up into a dark night sky framed with the shifting outline of the trees’ wind ruffled canopies. Winking stars were picked out in the dusky shadows of the heavens, like tiny glimmering points of silver needlework on a black velvet cloth. She took in a long, slow breath of the warm night air, reluctantly rolling into a sitting position, and finding by the tickling of her palm that she still held the feather.

A sigh and the whisper of fabric across skin disturbed the ambient nothingness that Loki’s thoughts had become, and he pocketed the braid, discovering with surprise that night had fallen. He peered between the branches and leaves, gazing out into the meadow in search of Káta, sure that no other knew of the sward and coppice guarded well. What his eyes saw defied comprehension. Káta was walking back to the well once more, but she glowed gold, the details of her form faintly fuzzy through the pale radiance that surrounded her, although there was a slightly stronger outline in the gold that followed the shape of her body. It shone from her skin like light from a candle, and she looked godlier than any individual Loki had seen; utterly angelic.

Loki scrambled through the trees, ungainly in his eagerness to see the inexplicable vision closer, halting above the well. Close to, however, the glow seemed no more likely to fade. Unable to believe his eyes, Loki rubbed at them as Káta began to descend into the dark waters. When he could see once more, it was only to find the impossibility reinforced, for her reflection shone in the ripples of the well’s surface, and lit her from below so that the radiance was doubled. Beneath the surface the light spread through the water as it had not in air, illuminating a shimmering globe about her that extended far out into the clear water, revealing the earth and stone that sculpted the well. As Káta moved, surrounded by a rippling pool of molten gold towards the projection of land beneath the tree, Loki saw that the apple hanging from the branches was surrounded with the same aura, the two halos merging as Káta halted beneath the apple.

He frowned slightly, eyes narrowing as Káta leant forwards across the grass, placing something small in a knot hole in the trunk of the apple tree. As the glow of her fingers illuminated the tiny indentation, Loki saw that it was his feather. She then pushed away back into the centre of the well, floating on her back as she had done earlier, the moon and stars reflected in her eyes, suspended in the rippling refraction of her own golden nimbus.

Káta let her thoughts drift, letting the sensations of the water relax her body and mind. Thoughts passed like the dark silhouettes of the clouds that drifted above her, and her mind became lucidly serene. She lost sense of time as she floated, dreamlike, watching the changing shapes and shading of the clouds above.

Eventually she stood once more, and rose out of the water, walking onto the grassy bank, her clothes and body raining water, lying down in the grass once more. The air was soft and warm, and eventually she drifted back into sleep, comfortable and dry and curled on her side.

 

Loki waited until he was sure that Káta was asleep before disappearing and rematerializing in the grass beside her. She was still surrounded by the golden aura, and by its light he could see that all the tiny wildflowers in the grass about her were leaning in, turned towards her.

His brow quirked in faint confusion, Loki tentatively passed his hand through the glowing aura. It lit his skin gold, and he felt warm and suddenly very alive, his heartbeat and the sound of his breath suddenly very loud in his ears. Inexplicable as the glow was, it did not seem to be any magic that he knew of. He did not think as the nymphs had that Káta was a seiðkona, although it was not an unintelligent assumption given her association with Freyja, but nor was she a nymph. There was a strong possibility that she had Vanir blood, however, but none of it explained why she glowed. Loki was drawn out of his thoughts of Káta’s lineage, however, by her shifting in the grass beside him.

At last, Loki turned his gaze onto Káta herself. The breeze had blown the wet tendrils of her hair into cloudy curls and twists, and her expression was gentle, and quite childlike. He desperately wanted to reach out and touch the delicate curls and to brush back the stray strands of hair that had fallen across her face, but a very large part of him was scared of what might happen if he did. He had been shocked by her apology and the request for forgiveness earlier, and the jolt of it had cracked something hard and painful inside him. Being so close to her now made him feel simultaneously hot and cold, and his heart was beating fast.

Tamping down on the burning heat rushing beneath his skin, Loki carefully bent towards Káta’s sleeping form, gently gathering her into his arms and rising in a single fluid movement. He had to take her back.

His heart was beating a mad tattoo inside his chest, his rushing blood pounding in his head, the sound of it in his ears. He could feel her weight, soft and warm and infinitesimally fragile, but utterly real; he was carrying all that she was in his arms. He felt his muscles tremble faintly, as though the importance of their burden had become a physical weight that they now had to bear.

She had slid down from his wrists in towards the crook of his arms, resting against his chest. Loki wanted nothing more than to remain in that moment, but it was not an option; dawn would be coming. A faint expression of concentration filled his face, his eyes narrowing slightly, and they disappeared from the glade without a sound.

 

In Káta’s room, Loki moved carefully over to her bed, tenderly lifting her away from him and laying her atop the covers. He rearranged her slightly into what he hoped was a more comfortable position, and stood back, watching her gentle breathing. He had never really watched anyone sleep before, not like this, anyway. Kvasir had said that she had been innocent and unspoiled when she first arrived, and now, in her sleep, Loki could clearly see it. Some tension that was usually in her had been released, softening her energetic form, and further gentling her expression. Her vivacious readiness, the faint watchful guardedness that always sat in her expression – observing, calculating her surroundings and the people in them – ready to spring forth with a flurry of wit, had fallen, and Loki felt sure that he now knew the reason behind her guardedness was the nymph’s. Now, vulnerable and oblivious, Káta was no longer consciously active, but passive and peaceful, transported away from those cares and issues she had to think of when awake into peaceful relief.

Loki remained standing above her, his mind wiped free of his own thoughts and concerns. Her natural innocence returned, there was something inescapably captivating about Káta – a serenity in her expression that calmed his own anxieties. It was restful.

He allowed himself a few more moments of peacefulness, then disappeared once more, returning from the well’s glade with her book in hand. Carefully, he picked his way through her dark room to a desk that stood in the corner, and laid the book down on it, fully repaired. Her horse he had returned to the stables, and he returned for one final glance, tucking the furs over her before leaving for the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aahh, the feels. The feels.  
> Loki + apologies + forgiveness = a very painful mixture.  
> I'll leave it at that.
> 
> Also, if you like this story, or any of my other ones, and you want access to sneak previews on chapters that I'm working on, Like my Facebook page, or Follow my Twitter :)  
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	13. The Secrets of the Well

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki, ever curious, hunts down the information he seeks to uncover Káta's parentage, and Freyja pays a visit to Mærsalr...

Warm yellow sunlight slid in through the windows, falling across Káta’s face. She sighed and shifted a little in her sleep, and the light fell across her eyelids. Her eyes shifted a little below their lids, then opened at the same instant that a frown formed between her brows, and she sat bolt upright, the movement flinging the furs off her, her expression panicked.

Káta was halfway through climbing out of bed when she froze, realising where she was. Her face crumpled with confusion, and she looked suspiciously from side to side, wondering whether she was imagining that she had come back to her room. A few more moments of stillness however, and she came to the conclusion that she really was back.

Still a little puzzled, Káta rose slowly from her bed, and moved about her room. Before she had opened her eyes she had been certain that she hadn’t returned the previous night, but had fallen asleep in the glade, and was scared of  the awkward questions that would be asked about her absence which might lead to the discovery of her secret place…and yet here she was. The only logical explanation was, of course, that she had forgotten that she had returned, and yet she _knew_ , somehow, that she hadn’t.

She moved over to her mirror and stared deeply into her own eyes, frowning hard as she leant back, her hands on her hips. One thing was for certain; if she had forgotten her return, then she had also forgotten to change, for she was still wearing the same, now wrinkled, dress as yesterday. She pulled at the garment, clicking her tongue critically before removing it and putting on a fresh one. Technically it was still clean, given that it had been immersed in the water of the well twice the previous day, but it was rumpled from being slept in. Káta gave it a contemplative sniff, and frowned a little at the scent of crushed pine needles and snow that came off it. The matter was immaterial however, she smelled like that too in some places now she came to think of it, but it was not something to be concerned over. She liked the distinctive green smell that pine trees had, sharp and somehow very rich, though clean, she supposed she must have brushed against one on the ride back.

It was as she was vaguely eyeing her reflection and tugging the shoulders of her fresh dress straight that she caught sight of the book Róta had damaged lying on her desk. With a concerned intake of breath, she whirled around, seizing the book and flipping through it, hoping against hope that she had not forgotten or lost the torn out pages. If she had lost one on the way back there was no way she would ever be able to find it, and Berghildr would probably bar her from the library for the rest of her life.

Nothing fell out, and even when she went through the book three more times she could not even find the gap where the pages had been removed. Confused and concerned, Káta held the book by its spine and gave it a little shake, although she didn’t really expect anything to come out. Káta sat on her bed, the book in her lap. The pages Róta had torn had been near the opening of the book, and she feverishly flicked through the pages, searching for the stubs near the binding.

It was not until she checked through the individual pages, reading that the text followed on from the previous page, that she became sure that the book was complete and undamaged. She shook her head, grateful that she didn’t have to explain anything to Berghildr, but immeasurably confused as she went down for the morning meal.

 

*

 

Had Fróði been the sort to gape with astonishment, his surprise at Loki’s visit and the change in the Prince’s appearance would have resulted in his teeth falling out. The young god had changed dramatically in the short period of time; healthy and fit, with an incurable little smile that kept reappearing as though he wasn’t quite aware of it. Contrition edged with shame was also in the Prince’s face, and Fróði made a silent thanks to the stars for Káta, sure that she was the cause of the change.

Loki, unaware that every time his thoughts drifted back to Káta he began to smile, could not help but feel ingrained concern as he offered up his abashed apology to the old Head Librarian. His fears, however, were quickly dismissed by Fróði’s instant reception of them with a hug, the strength of which belied the wizened appearance of his limbs.

Fróði, of course, knew better than to try to discuss the source of Loki’s transformation; such things were better to merely accept and be grateful for, and discussing the matter might lead to reversing the effects. Together they walked to Loki’s table, Loki still a little self-conscious given his recent behaviour, and Fróði gently chattering away about subjects that took his fancy, aware of the prince’s discomfort.

It did not take long before Fróði knew that something was on Loki’s mind, and it was a little while after Loki relaxed and began to be more like himself that the matter was finally broached.

“Fróði…” Loki began slowly, addressing his fingers, which were toying with a tiny woven circlet of grass stalks and flowers. He had been fiddling with the band for the majority of their conversation. The old god’s rheumy eyes instantly sharpened, aware that they had finally come to the reason why Loki was there.

“Yes?” He prompted.

“Are there any of the Æsir or any other race in the Nine Worlds that…well…glow?” Loki made a slight face at how poorly worded his question was. To be sure it lacked his usual elegance, but Fróði was not concerned with this. His already wrinkled brow creased, and he blinked in thought as Loki’s hopeful eyes at last moved to his face.

“No…none that come to mind…” he replied, still frowning. “Unless by ‘glow’ you mean the light given off by the sons of Múspell? The fire jötnar of Múspellsheimr? Some of them are known to give off a light from the flames of their bodies.” Loki’s expression became slightly disappointed.

“Oh…no…” he said, his gaze returning to the grass circlet. “Well…what about fruit?”

“Fruit?” Asked Fróði, genuinely confused now.

“Yes…apples for instance…” Loki’s eyes were fixed determinedly on the circlet. “Ones that glow gold?”

Understanding flooded Fróði’s aged face. “Oh, yes; there are those.” He assured Loki. At the confidence of his tone, Loki’s eyes snapped up once more, hungry for information. Fróði required no further prompting. “You speak of the youth rejuvenating apples. I am not surprised that you do not know what they are – you are, what? Yet to reach your first century?”

“Ninety two,” Loki clarified. Fróði nodded.

“Yes.” He replied expansively. “You’ve still got another three hundred and eight or so years before you’ll need to eat one of those apples. They’re the secret to the youth of the Æsir. Eat one and it will return your body to youthfulness.”

“So you’ve eaten one, then?” Loki asked. Fróði looked vaguely affronted.

“Just how old do you think I am? Only the oldest gods that were there from the beginning, like your father and mother and Heimdallr have grown old enough to eat that fruit. I’m only three hundred and seventy six.” Loki’s face darkened slightly at the mention of his father, so Fróði hurried on. “Those apples are in the keeping of Iðunn; the wife of Bragi. She has a protected orchard of the trees, guarded by the Enchanted Forest in Álfheimr that none but she may enter. Those wishing to eat the fruit have to be escorted by her, or lost in the ever changing forest.”

“And the trees only grow in her orchards?” Loki asked. Fróði shook his head.

“No, they appear at random throughout Asgard. Part of Iðunn’s duties is to find them, but they are very rare, and the apples take a full year to grow. She plucks the mature ones and keeps them in an ash wood eski that only she can open, fashioned for her by her half-brothers, the sons of Ivaldi.” Loki’s brows rose a little at the information, then he frowned a little, thinking.

“Have others ever found the trees in the wild?” Fróði shook his head at the question.

“Only Iðunn has the ability to find them,” he replied. Loki’s frown deepened.

“What does she look like?” Fróði, vaguely confused by Loki’s sudden interrogation, shrugged.

“I have not seen the goddess myself,” he replied, “but she is said to have hair as golden as her apples that is long enough to touch the ground. Many gods were disappointed when she married Bragi, for she is very beautiful and many desired her. It is even said that she glows like the apples she tends, though she has no children...why do you ask?”

Fróði’s question pulled Loki out of his thoughts regarding the idea that Káta might be the daughter of Iðunn. “Hm? Oh, I saw a goddess who looked like her in Valhalla yesterday. I haven’t played a trick on her yet, so…”

“You thought you’d find out more about her to improve your mischief,” Fróði finished, nodding, rolling his eyes slightly. It was not uncommon for Loki to ask for the particulars of certain gods or goddesses he was intending to practice his arts on. For all that Fróði knew that he had just helped Loki set a trap for the unsuspecting goddess, Fróði could not help but smile. It was good to see Loki back to his old self once more.

Loki’s expression had become thoughtful once more, immersed in plotting his impending trick, Fróði felt sure, so the head librarian merely stood, resting a gentle hand on the prince’s shoulder for a moment, then giving him a quick pat before shuffling off.

Contrary to Fróði’s thoughts, however, Loki was still ruminating over Káta. He had no intention of playing a trick on the goddess he now felt sure to be her mother, not only because he hadn’t seen her, but also because he was fairly sure that it would not endear him to Káta. He was sure that Káta _was_ Iðunn’s daughter, or that they at least shared close ties of kinship. There was certainly no other way that Káta could have come by the apple tree with its glowing apple, which he felt sure to be one of Iðunn’s, and the very fact that her skin glowed like the apples, in the same manner that Iðunn was rumoured to meant that their being a mother and daughter was all the more likely.

Pleased that he had finally figured out Káta’s ancestry, and the fact that she was at least a demi-goddess, Loki stood to leave, walking out of the library and down the wide stone path outside. The only question that remained in his mind was why Káta was pretending to be a nymph. The issue was overshadowed, however, by the thoughts that had possessed his mind all through his sleep the previous night.

His sleep had been more than disturbed, and eventually he had given up on rest all together and simply lain amongst his rumpled bedclothes, staring up at his dark ceiling.

Káta’s distinctive scent had clung to his clothes from when he had carried her, and the smell of it had at first kept him awake as he consciously breathed it in, until finally he drowsed. Then his mind had woken him, unable to let go of the single fact that he had been turning over and over ever since it had happened. _Forgiveness. Apology._ It was incomprehensible.

He had been unable to come up with an answer during the night. Now, he could return to the conundrum, his mind revolving around a single troublesome word: _why?_ Why would she ask him for his forgiveness, or apologise to him? His forgiveness meant nothing to anyone. His apologies meaningless to all except Fróði, and denied to those that demanded them. He was desperate to see her again, to feel the compassion that she so readily gave, but a deeply ingrained part of him held back, fearing to go on and find rejection. It questioned his worth. Whether he even deserved to feel what she made him feel. Whether he deserved to be gifted with her kindness.

Suddenly constricted, Loki stopped walking. His face, which had been carefree and purposeful mere moments before was twisted in a painful grimace as if a vicious pain had taken hold of his vitals, and a hard knot in his throat was making it difficult to breath. He turned his face away into his shoulder, his eyes shut, his lips pressed tightly together.

No. He was asking for pain. Better to avoid it. Hope had always failed him in the past. People _always_ failed him. The thoughts began to grow, welling in his mind like a storm front massing above a mountain. Darkness filled him, rolling out quickly and retaking the areas of light that Káta had kindled in him. Soon the voice was echoing through him, drowning out any opposition, the rain quenching the timorous lights that flickered in and out, trying vainly to give hope to his drowning soul.

_You are not worthy. You never were worthy._

His expression barely controlled, Loki disappeared.

 

*

 

The news that Freyja was coming down to visit the nymphs did not influence Káta’s emotions in any way. It did, however, have a profound effect on the Nipt Þrír. The sisters were sent into a panicked flurry, and Káta had felt their anxious eyes on her whenever their paths crossed, noticing the special distance they had begun to keep from her.

When the fiery haired goddess eventually arrived astride her boar Hildisvíni, the tension amongst the sisters was palpable. It was considered an unspokenly compulsory courtesy for all nymphs to be present when Freyja visited, and she would often have one or two words to say to most, frequently about matters that none expected her to have knowledge of.

Seniority had nothing to do with who was met first; it depended entirely on the goddess’s agenda. She moved towards the milling group of nymphs who looked like an array of colourful silk flowers as the wind ruffled their skirts. Their finery was nothing to the innate majesty of a goddess however.

Freyja’s hair was the same colour as the red gold tears that she wept for her often absent husband, Óðr, and restrained by a band of fire-bright rubies set in linked squares of gold. Her flowing white dress was thick with green and blue embroidery, gold thread and glimmering glass beads, detailed to a level of richness that befitted her beauty and solemnity. The gold bodice about her waist reminded them, however, that she was not to be trifled with, for all the beauty and solemnity of her appearance, and that she presided over the field Fólkvangr; choosing half among those slain on the battlefield to dine in her halls Sessrúmnir there, the rest going to Odin to be einherjar in Valhalla. Many of the nymphs were taller than her, but this did little to diminish her presence as she swept towards them; this was a goddess that walked battlefields.

All curtseyed, the natural vivacity and unruliness of the nymphs restrained by Freyja’s presence. The necklace brísingamen gleamed about her throat as she met those new demi-god and goddess infants that had been born since her last visit, tickling the infants beneath their chins even as she sternly eyed their mothers.

Káta, having a natural affinity with creatures, was scratching Hildisvíni under and around his neck – the one place that the boar could not reach himself – and Freyja acknowledged her in passing.

Freyja herself knew nothing about Káta beyond the scanty information that Frigg had given her; to house her amongst the nymphs, and to consider her one of them. Freyja knew nymphs, and she had known on meeting Káta that she was not one. Questioning the motives and actions of the Queen of Asgard, however, was not seemly, and nor was prying into her affairs, so Freyja did as she had been bidden. She had not done so lightly, however, for she had anticipated the unwelcome reception that Káta had received from the Nipt Þrír, and the treatment that the pure blooded nymphs were likely to subject one so obviously not of their race to. Tolerant as she was, Freyja was far from blind to the vices and tendencies of her charges.

Her usual concerns on seeing Káta in close proximity to Spana and her sisters, however, were dispersed by the odd wariness in the Nipt Þrír, and the especial deference in their gaze and gestures towards herself. Káta evidently found this vaguely amusing and ignored them, but Freyja could tell from the swiftly darting eyes of Róta, the steadily assessing gaze of Lúta, and the faint shades of deference in Spana’s expression that the sisters had a matter to take up with her.

It was not until she was about to leave that they at last approached her.

“Freyja…can _anyone_ practice seiðr?” Spana’s tone was so close to being respectful that she almost sounded sincere. Freyja paused in the motion of mounting Hildisvíni, and nodded her head, slightly confused by the question.

“Yes, with the right training. It tends more to be a woman’s discipline…men tend to be considered argr if they practice it.” She gave the sisters a piercing glance. “I will not teach it to you, if that is what you are going to ask.”

Spana shook her head innocently. “Oh no, we were just wondering. …have you ever taught anyone seiðr?” Freyja frowned slightly.

“No,” she turned away from the sisters, climbing onto the back of the waiting boar. She gazed down at them, as Hildisvíni pawed at the ground impatiently. “What is your interest in the matter?”

“The trickster god has been frequenting Mærsalr of late…it is said that he is an accomplished practitioner of seiðr,” Lúta interjected smoothly, the lie well concealed amongst the truth, “we wondered how he came to learn such arts, and whether others had.” Freyja’s faintly interrogative expression changed, the solemnity of her mien crossed with a flash of anger.

“Yes, he is. Stay away from Loki; he is not good company to keep…especially as none within Mærsalr have knowledge of seiðr to combat his trickery. I do not know where he learned his seiðr – the Allfather is accomplished in the art, and may have taught him; some are born with it. There are some few talented individuals like that, but they are rare.”

The sisters nodded their thanks for the information, bowing their heads meekly as Freyja turned from them, her boar wheeling with a squeal and then galloping off in a clatter of trotters.

Lúta and Róta gazed at Spana, whose expression, now that Freyja had departed, was alive with malicious intent. “We have a debt to pay back,” she said, her voice hard as she swept back towards the nymph’s halls. Her sisters’ exchanged a glance. Luta’s expression was sedately knowing, a faint glint of fire in her dull grey eyes. Róta’s face, however, was alive with a vengeance, anticipation kindling a fire in her belly for the trouble that Spana so evidently had in mind for Kata.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes. Loki smells of crushed pine needles and snow. He smells of Christmas. ... 8D  
> And yes, he is ninety two. Which makes him the equivalent of about twenty three, physically. But never fear! Káta is two hundred and twenty eight! ...or nineteen years old physically. XP There's a tiny bit of an age difference. But they're immortals! Age is no barrier (in fact, if you know your Norse mythology about Loki in particular, you'll know that even species is no barrier XP)
> 
> So yes, I said it would be a short chapter, and a short chapter it is. A little boring in my opinion, given that it's largely Loki figuring out stuff we already know about Káta...so have some Loki angst! :D The feels, why do I do this? Anyway, Loki relapses. :(  
> Also, Loki's not particularly tricky or cunning in trying to extract information from Fróði , largely because Fróði is the one person Loki trusts completely in all the Nine Worlds, and he doesn't need to be cunning to get help from him :)  
> And what is in store for Káta from Spana and her sisters...? I guess we'll find out together XP
> 
> Also, the word _argr_ is the Nordic adjective used to describe men that practiced magic (seidr). It's basically an insult that means "unmanly" or "effeminate"
> 
> Oh yes, I almost forgot... Get excited! Because Káta and Loki are going to start seriously interacting from the next chapter onwards! I won't spoil anything for the next chapter, but shall we say they have a run-in with each other...and Loki, who thinks he's sussed Káta out, realises that she's a little bit more of anything he ever expected...  
> (God, it's taken me _this long_ just to build up to writing the actual body! Anyway, celebrations for getting here! :D )
> 
> Also, if you like this story, or any of my other ones, and you want access to sneak previews on chapters that I'm working on, Like my Facebook page, or Follow my Twitter :)  
> https://www.facebook.com/josephinetomkinsauthor  
> https://twitter.com/jtomkinsauthor


	14. Book Covers, Lies, and Rules

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The God of Lies attempts to lie to himself about something he has never had to before. Another chance meeting at the Library sparks things off to a new start, and Loki learns that Káta is even less like other females that he ever thought.

Loki spent the next few days in the library. Fróði knew that something was troubling the prince once more, but was sharp enough not to comment on the matter. He knew that it was not the same problem that had plagued Loki before, that much was obvious from the fitful pacing and muttered conversations that the prince held with himself, appearing to be debating a matter. He was fidgety too, one moment sitting at the table, the next materialising atop a nearby bookcase, the next sitting on the curve of a windowsill. His movement was too rapid for Fróði to follow, but he knew that the prince never went beyond the bounds of the library, although there were several moments each day that he would come very close to doing so, either approaching the doors, or materialising before them with his hand on the handle, only to disappear almost instantaneously. There had been one moment when he had remained before the doors for a solid hour, his hand gripping the knocker hard enough to leave an impression of his palm had it been made of a lesser metal, unaware of his surroundings or actions until a Valkyrie wishing to leave disturbed him.

Fróði knew that there was nothing he could do to help in this matter. It was something deeply personal, he could see, and Loki was clearly fighting some inner monologue that was forceful enough to prevent him from executing his wishes. The old librarian had thought to ask Káta to come, in the event that she might, if not help, then at least distract Loki. Fróði had discarded the idea as soon as he thought it, however. Forcing Loki’s hand was often the worst thing possible to do, and he had a feeling that if this matter was ignored, no good would come of it. However much he wanted to help Loki return to Káta’s influence, he knew, for the moment, the best way he could be of use, was to say nothing at all.

Loki himself fought to reconcile the magnetic desire to see Káta again with the dictates of the voice that had guided him through most of his life. By and large, he did as he wished, but he had long since learned to take heed of that voice whenever it appeared in the back of his mind. Ignoring it had never been an option; it was painfully insistent, and more often than not, brutishly forceful. He had never been much of a one for relationships – he didn’t have the time for them, and more pain was to be gained from them than anything else; they weighed him down and were liabilities – and he had followed his inner voice since before he had reached adolescence. Its advice had protected him in the past when he had thought to reach out to people. When he was younger, and it had not been so adamant, and he had ignored it, he had always suffered the consequences.

God of Lies as he was, however, he could not convince that part of himself that his interest in Káta was merely as a potential source of amusement, or that he wanted to watch her sleep once more merely because her serenity soothed the turmoil of his troubles. To be sure, she was intelligent, mischievous, a keeper of secrets, and well up for a verbal joust; but that was not the sum total of her attractions, much as he tried to pretend they were. She was unfailingly kind and radiated a sense of unsolicited caring. Exposed to brief samples of this – her passing smiles, and laughter at his more obscure witticisms – Loki was desperate for a deeper taste of those emotions and experiences that so few people had gifted him with. But the voice held him back, and whenever he determined to see her again it would resurface memories of past betrayals when he had dared to trust others, and they had done nothing. He had learned that lesson early; ever since his mother had failed to defend him from his father’s fury regarding an accident (which, for once, truly hadn’t been his doing) in his child hood. Trust was now very hard to come by.

To be sure Káta was not the first to fascinate him. There had been others, but never before had anyone held such a power over him in such a manner. There was something about her that compelled him to seek her out, not only because of the oaths he had sworn to himself to protect her, but also because there was something about her that radiated preciousness. She was important for some reason or other that went beyond the pull in his chest that drew him to her.

 

Loki walked towards the library, already deep in thought. It had been nearly half a dozen days, and what headway he was making was fairly minimal. His eyes were fixed on the uniform blocks of marble that paved the path before him, not really seeing anything, but frowning as he walked, already immersed in debate with himself. His concentration was such that even as he walked up the steps to the library doors he did not notice their opening, nor the appearance of a female figure as she exited them.

Káta was engrossed by the book she had just borrowed. It was one of a number of volumes of Midgardian love stories compiled by Lofn, Freyja, and Sjöfn during their duties. She found them fascinating from the point of view of the fleeting nature of the mortal’s lives – so much like butterflies – and the way they acted was quite different to any of the other inhabitants of the Nine Worlds; almost always rashly throwing themselves into situations that they couldn’t turn back from, and often carelessly passionate. She was so absorbed by the current tale that she did not notice the god before her until they walked into each other, the impact knocking the stack of books from her arms. They fell in a thudding tumble between them as they both leapt back instinctively, protecting their toes from being crushed by the falling tomes.

Loki looked up from the slew of volumes, his eyes widening as they settled on Káta at the same moment that she looked up to see who it was that had walked into her. A faint flush of embarrassment had risen in her cheeks, deepening in colour as their eyes met, and Loki was vaguely mortified to feel a similar heat in his own face.

Káta could see the same surprise that she felt in Loki’s face, his lips slightly parted in an airless intake of breath. She attempted a tentative smile, bright but gentle. She had missed him the past week or so, and had wondered at his absence. The nymphs had given him up as a bad job, especially Spana, who had looked positively furious when she figured out that he would no longer be coming down to the pavilion. Káta, however, had found herself missing him. When he was around she found that she laughed a lot more, for all his sadness and troubles, and she had begun to look forward to his visits. Her promise to Fróði no longer rested on her mind as a burden, for quite beyond seeing that Loki truly needed her help, she now wanted to spend time with him for her own sake; he was good company.

Loki’s mind had been wiped blank by Káta’s smile, and it was not until his own mouth began to automatically reciprocate, and hers to widen at his response, that he came back to himself.

“Berghildr will be furious if she sees this,” Káta said, her hands on her hips as she gazed down at the scattered books for the first time since she had looked up. She bent, about to kneel down so she could gather them up once more, thanking the gods that none were damaged from their fall. Before she had even touched them, however, they began to shift, spiralling up into the air and coming to rest in a neat stack in Loki’s arms.

She straightened, pleasantly surprised, and smiling. Loki had a faint smile on his lips once more, a little shy, and his eyes were kind as they met with hers.

“You seem to be making rather a habit of walking into me at the library,” he said mischievously, an amused twinkle in his eyes, although his expression remained gentle.

Káta smirked back at him. “Either that or you want to be walked into by me,” she replied. Loki tilted his head slightly, cocking an eyebrow in a gesture that might just be considered agreement.

She watched as he turned his attention to the books he was still holding, balancing the heavy stack on one forearm so that his other hand was free to turn the volumes over and examine their spines.

Loki found himself pleasantly surprised as he recognised a number of the titles as ones he had often read himself; sagas and questing tales. Others were things he had never thought to read, and some few appeared entirely erroneous.

He glanced up at Káta with a raised eyebrow, his expression sceptical as he flipped past some books of harp music and tapestry patterns, pulling out the romance beneath.

“Really?” He asked incredulously, his brows raised once more, and a disbelieving smile curling the corner of his mouth.

Káta bristled slightly, her expression becoming defensive. Loki found her faint pout somewhat endearing. “The tale of Finnr and Ljúfa is good,” she replied stubbornly, “besides, you shouldn’t prejudge something if you don’t know what it’s like…” Káta laughed slightly, “and you really shouldn’t judge a book by its cover.” The words had risen unbidden to her mind, unbelievably appropriate to the situation, and she had briefly wondered whether or not to say them in case they upset Loki. She had been careful to keep her tone light, but now she watched him carefully. He snorted with bitter amusement, his eyes fixed on the cover of the book that he still held in his hand, almost pensive, before he shot her a sideways glance, his expression odd.

“So you would not judge a book by its cover?” He asked, his expression suddenly stern, the light jesting mood gone, his eyes fixed intensely on her.

Káta smiled slightly, and met his gaze directly, her own gentle. “I would try not to,” she replied softly, “I would try to give it a chance to show me what it was like before I judged it.”

Loki’s eyes narrowed slightly, shades of distrust in his expression. “You cannot expect me to believe that you have never prejudged something,” he replied, eyeing her penetratingly. It went without saying that he would know if she was lying.

Káta shook her heard earnestly. “No, I wouldn’t,” she replied honestly. “Of course I’ve prejudged things, we all do, but I do try to give them a chance anyway before I make up my mind…and opinions can always be changed.” She gazed into his unbending expression, her own open as he remained staring hard at her for a few moments.

Loki glanced down with considering disdain at the book in his hand, aloof. “Hm,” he said. The stack of books disappeared from his arm without any visible gesture from him, and without even glancing up at her, the god himself vanished.

Káta stood, surprised and shocked by Loki’s abrupt disappearance. The emotions only lasted momentarily, however, giving way to a distinct feeling of exasperation, put out by the disappearance of her books – those at least he could have left with her. She huffed slightly, turning on the spot and wondering what to do.

She glanced over her shoulder at the library doors, knowing that there was no way she could go in there and simply tell Berghildr that the Trickster God had magiced away her books. What was worse was that she had no way of finding or contacting Loki – she could no more walk into Valhalla to find him than she could have done to find her mother.

Disgusted, she muttered, “Gods!” turning on her heel and marching back to Mærsalr.

 

Loki watched Káta from where he was crouched in a nearby tree, grinning to himself as she returned to the nymph’s hall in an obvious state of displeasure. He glanced down with serious consideration at the book still in his hands, turning Káta’s words over in his mind before disappearing once more.

 

*

 

Káta opened the door to her room with a rueful sigh at the waste of time her trip to the library had been, given that she had nothing to show for it. She was pleased to have run into Loki, though – even if he was now the cause of her present predicament.

She was still turning over ways she might find Loki or be able to get a message to him as she turned towards her desk. Her books sat in the middle of it in a neat stack. She smiled, amused in spite of herself, shaking her head.

 

*

 

Loki spent the rest of the day and the next reading Káta’s book, sitting in the circular frame of a window in his room. Love stories were traditionally something he had shied away from reading, but her words had struck a chord with him and he was willing to try.

The content intrigued him, although he thoroughly disbelieved most of it, unable to understand why the nobleman’s son would be willing to forsake his family and duty and title just for the love of a woman – especially a woman that his family disapproved of. Nor did he find the idea that a woman would willingly wait and pine for her absent lover a plausible one, especially if Ljúfa was as beautiful as the text declared her to be. It was a legend, however, and therefore little credence was to be assigned to it.

 

*

 

Káta sat at her desk holding several bottles of ink up to the light coming in through her windows, squinting through the glass to check their colours. Her fingers were covered in charcoal dust from the sticks she had been using to draw the tapestry design on the large roll of parchment stretched out before her. She had finished the outline of the tendril border for one side, and blown away and brushed off the fine dusting of charcoal powder that had been dropped, and was preparing to ink it in to minimise smudging the details when she began the next side.

She put one bottle down, satisfied that the one she held was black, and opened it. She was just putting the glass stopper down when Loki materialised to her left in the middle of the room, his appearance going unnoticed by her until he spoke.

“I’ve read it.”

Káta leapt to her feet, turning in his direction, startled, dropping the stopper with a crack and her arm (which rather unfortunately held the open bottle) jerking automatically, spraying Loki with ink. It largely splattered his face, covering his surprised expression with a speckling of black droplets. Káta remained frozen where she had stopped, her eyes wide with shock as she stared at the god for a few silent moments. Then her lips rippled and laughter bubbled up into the room, bursting out of her in a merry torrent at the sight of Loki looking so surprised to be covered in ink.

Loki collected himself, raising an unimpressed eyebrow and gazing at Káta with a humourless expression. Káta pressed her lips together, breathing deeply to hold back her laughter as she raised her own brows.

“You’re the one who appeared in my room and surprised me,” she said, her amusement still evident in her voice. Loki pursed his lips slightly, but conceded the point with a twitch of his eyebrows, waving a hand over his face and chest and disappearing the ink.

Káta tipped the largely empty ink bottle towards him with an expectant grin. Loki regarded it and her for a long moment before gazing away with a degraded sigh and refilling it with magic. Káta smiled, turning and sitting back down at her desk, applying herself to her work once more.

“Thank you for sending my books here, by the way,” she said, not looking up as she began to trace over the pattern.

Loki, unused to thanks, remained standing somewhat awkwardly in the middle of the room before he eventually shrugged. After a few moments of the quill scratching against the parchment Káta turned in her chair to face the prince, one leg tucked under the other, her expression curious. “Also, how do you know where my room is? It’s a bit strange, you know.”

Loki’s expression became faintly aloof, and he wandered idly over to the desk, not looking at Káta as she stared with open expectation up at him. He stopped on her other side and gazed over her shoulder at her design, eyes flitting over the open books with their depicted patterns. “What’s this for?” He asked; his expression was faintly critical.

Káta’s expression became quizzical. “A wall hanging…I don’t really know what I’m going to put in it, but I thought the wall looked bare.” He gave her an odd look, then drifted away, gazing at the rest of her room and its contents. Káta followed his progress with her eyes for a few moments before she noticed that he was holding her book in his hand.

Returning to outlining the borders, she asked, “How did you find the book, then?”

Loki had finished circling her room, and had returned to standing over her shoulder, now examining the various small boxes and containers that scattered her table. He shrugged.

“It was interesting.”

“You’re lying,” Káta replied almost instantaneously, still busy with her work.

Loki stared at her. No one knew when he was lying to them – it was his job that they did not know. And no one had ever pronounced him to be lying to them in such an off handed manner as Káta had just done.

Káta ignored his arrested silence until she had finished the section she was working on, and then looked up. He was staring at her with a shocked and vaguely affronted expression. Káta’s brows twisted in surprised confusion.

“What?” She asked.

“How did you know?” Loki’s tone was guarded, but too curious to be angry. Káta’s expression cleared as she laughed.

“Of course you’re lying! You don’t expect me to believe that you actually liked the story, do you?” She shot him an incredulous grin. Loki pursed his lips slightly, not deigning to reply, but returning instead to his examination of the objects her desk was home to.

Káta gazed at him for a few more moments, merriment in her laughing eyes before she turned back to her parchment.

Loki glanced at her industrious form from the corner of his eyes, speculating. Of course the conclusion she had drawn was perfectly logical, but no one had ever done such a thing to him before. Turning his eyes back to the table, he reached out to open the lid of an intriguingly carved box.

Káta absently reached out and slapped the back of the god’s hand lightly, still scanning her inking.

Loki withdrew his hand like a snake, hissing slightly at the unexpected sharp sting, and turning a faintly outraged and shocked expression on her. Káta gazed up at him, her eyebrows raised.

“My things, my rules.” She said sternly. Loki looked down at her with an expression of petulant hauteur, pouting slightly, and stalked off to the other end of the room with a swishing snap of his clothing.

Káta couldn’t help but smile slightly at his childishness, rolling her eyes a little as she swivelled in her chair with him, watching as he sat down on her window sill.

“So? What did you _really_ think about it?” She asked.

Loki made a face, evidently still somewhat peeved, even though he appeared to have decided to abide by Káta’s rules. “It was utterly unbelievable rubbish.”

Káta gave him a faintly disconcerting narrowed look, then turned back to her paper. “And why was that?”

Loki glanced down at the book with a frustrated sigh, as if it really ought to be obvious without any explanation. “There is no man in all the Nine Worlds that would willingly give up his position, duty, and the respect of his family for a woman – there is no man as self-sacrificing as Finnr,” he said, brandishing the book slightly as he mentioned the character’s name, “and even in the event that a man did do such an idiotic thing, then the woman would betray him. No woman as beautiful as Ljúfa is said to be could be as chaste or demure as this makes out, and she certainly wouldn’t wait for him to return for three years with no certainty that he even would.”

Káta cocked an eyebrow at her parchment, her eyes still focused on the lines she traced. “Beautiful women can be devoted and have their hearts broken just the same as plain ones,” she commented lightly.

Loki snorted faintly. “Yes. But when women are beautiful and know it they use their beauty to their advantage. They manipulate the men around them to get what they want. You shouldn’t be a stranger to that living here,” Loki gestured around at the walls of the room, clearly indicating the nymphs.

Káta nodded slightly, conceding his point. “But not all women are like nymphs,” she said, prompting Loki to continue. He gave her a long look.

“Maybe not,” he said eventually, “but most are, and Ljúfa wouldn’t have waited for Finnr – even if she really was as virtuous as this says she is. Few people who bind themselves with words actually hold to them.”

“So you don’t believe that the norns might determine the destiny of two people such that their love really is deep, and true, and abiding across time?” Káta asked.

Loki paused for a moment. “That may well be, but they are not said to take a hand in this tale,” he replied, a flash of triumph in his eyes, “and even if they had, how could the love be called true if it was forced upon them by the norns? Without magical enforcement like that, they would fall apart. That’s what relationships do; they help people hurt each other.” He spoke with such certainty that Káta looked up from her work, her eyes resting lightly on him, neither judging nor disagreeing, but simply thoughtful.

“Well…” she said slowly, thinking it might be time to steer the conversation into less dangerous waters, “what of Finnr? Men have been known to sacrifice everything they have for the woman they love – even things that aren’t theirs to give.” She turned to face him at last, sitting upright, her legs folded beneath her. “Wars have been started by men simply for a woman.”

Loki tilted his head from side to side granting his agreement. “Yes, but no good has ever come from such affairs – and there is nothing that can be done to win a woman’s heart if she doesn’t give it willingly in the beginning.” Káta’s brow wrinkled slightly, but she said nothing.

“Well, what about Finnr’s relationship with his brother – you can’t have any objection to that?” She asked. “They were devoted to each other, as any brothers would be.” Loki’s expression suddenly became dangerous.

“There was no love between them.” He said shortly. “Hvatr betrayed Finnr’s trust when he told their father that he had gone to Ljúfa. It was going to happen from the beginning.” He flipped open the book he still held, leafing through some pages until he found what he wanted, then began to read. “‘The brothers were of equal strength, and both had won their bouts in the day’s events. But when it came time for their father to declare the champion, it was Hvatr’s name that was on the crowd’s lips. Finnr did not mind; he had never aspired to be champion in anything, and now he was the champion of Ljúfa’s heart – that was all he needed.’” Loki flipped the book shut with a disgusted expression. “What man would think in such a way? He ranked equally with his brother, why were they not named joint champions?” He continued on, not allowing Káta time to answer. “Because the crowd favoured Hvatr, and his strength, and everything that was his by default of his birth.” Loki’s voice had become distinctly angry, and old wounds were beginning to surface in his eyes.

Káta gazed gently at Loki, recognising the origins of his pain as well as his dislike for the story. “But Hvatr cared for Finnr – it wasn’t his fault that he was chosen…their father favoured Hvatr; his first born. It is a very common thing to happen.”

“And so Finnr does not even have a chance?!” Asked Loki, disproportionately outraged.

“But he doesn’t need his father’s love or approval – he has Ljúfa. She’s all that matters to him, and he’s all that matters to her.” Káta replied with dogged patience. Loki snorted.

“And you find it plausible then that Finnr forsakes everything he might have had just for her, do you?” Loki asked bitingly.

Káta nodded, determinedly trying to convey her point. “Finnr wouldn’t have inherited much as the second son anyway, and most of his father’s love was reserved for Hvatr – there was nothing he could do to change that. Sometimes these things just happen. He had little to lose and everything to gain by seeking Ljúfa. Their love was more powerful than any other bond that might have tied him to his family or father or brother. He didn’t _need_ to break those ties, but he chose to because his father forced him to. If he hadn’t then he wouldn’t have been free to love Ljúfa, and they would have spent their lives apart and alone. And Ljúfa nearly died from heartbreak when she thought he wasn’t going to return for her, remember.”

Loki was giving Káta a deeply sceptical look that she was far from oblivious to. “You don’t actually believe any of this, do you?” He asked.

Káta smiled gently. “Yes, I do,” she replied earnestly. “They made choices for love, and they were happy because of them; I don’t see what’s wrong with that.” She shrugged. “But everyone is entitled to their own opinion. How would you have ended the story?” She shifted to pillow her cheek on her hand, her eyes fixed intently on him.

Loki was frowning mightily, and his eyes shifted down from her earnestly patient face to the cover of the book between his hands. Then, after sitting rigidly for a few moments, he stood stiffly, walking down from the window sill towards the middle of the room once more, facing the door.

He tilted his head slightly in her direction, although his gaze remained on the floor, and his face was hard.

“I would never have begun it,” he said shortly. Then, before Káta could react, he turned away from her, leaning towards her bed and dropping the book on it, before disappearing once more.

Káta remained where he had left her, still resting on her hand, eyes lowered to the book where it lay, her expression a little sad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. SOOO excited to get this up for you all!! :D  
> So yes, Loki, the God of Lies, is trying to lie to himself...and failing. He's been soooo good at it in the past, cos, you know, it's been like a coping mechanism to deal with Odin being a rubbish father to him, and not being loved enough, but when it comes to lying to himself about Káta...that's a whole new ball game.  
> Also, I guess I've made him have a bit of DID (Disassociative Personality Disorder) with the whole voice in his head, but it's meant to be more like instinct, I guess.  
> Oh, and yay for Loki being a gentleman...after a fashion ;) But come on, we all know that if he's anything, Loki's unconventional. So if he's gonna pick up a girl's books for her, he's going to do it with magic...and then pretend to magic off with them. :P That's just how he rolls.  
> And also yay for Káta being awesome and not letting Loki do whatever he wants with her things :D Cos he needs telling sometimes - in a gentle mischievous sort of way.
> 
> Also, if you like this story, or any of my other ones, and you want access to sneak previews on chapters that I'm working on, Like my Facebook page, or Follow my Twitter :)  
> https://www.facebook.com/josephinetomkinsauthor  
> https://twitter.com/jtomkinsauthor


	15. Curiosity and Struggles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki, ever curious, decides to revisit Káta's room and look through her things...without permission.

The next morning Loki lay amongst his rumpled bed sheets, staring up at the ceiling, thinking. His night had been restless, for his talk with Káta had stirred up the hot roil of issues that he had been trying to face before meeting her, as well as creating a whole host of new ones.

The latter half of their discussion had come perilously close to home, though he had no desire to admit it, and the dark cloud of issues between himself and his father and brother were not what he wished to think of at present. Stubbornly, he pushed them away from his thoughts, and puzzled instead over Káta’s ridiculous notions about love. In his experience love was overrated. Like all feelings, it was just another way to let people hurt each other; except it was the worst way of all. Affection, love, trust; they all opened you up – made you vulnerable. And once poisoned by their affects there was no way of protecting yourself from attacks and injuries; they held you open to harm. A childhood spent unable to protect himself had ingrained a deep-seated dislike of being exposed in any way, and helplessness was a sensation Loki loathed above all others.

His tolerance with the matter was only short-lived, however, and unable to comprehend Káta’s position, he soon turned his thoughts to happier things. After that, he had been kept awake by the powerful curiosity to see more of her room. It was like a niggling itch that was just beyond his reach, for denying his curiosity was not something that he excelled at.

Told not to touch her things, he had not while she was there. But her injunction had done nothing to lessen his desire to explore and investigate her belongings. He had followed her rules, not only because she had caught him by surprise, but also because he wished to remain in her good graces. His curiosity was strong enough to bother him until it was sated, however, and even before he had disappeared on her yesterday he had made up his mind to return when she was not there, and examine her room and belongings at his leisure.

He ate a hasty breakfast in his rooms, impatient to be about his business, summoning various platters and eating them while still cross legged on his bed, impatiently changing his sleeping clothes with seiðr as he did before disappearing.

 

Loki reappeared atop the wooden ridge of the western-most corner of the roof of the nymph’s hall, Káta’s room directly below his feet. He was far above the ground, nine levels up, and ceilings were built high in Asgard, but heights had never bothered him. He lay along the roof ridge, his head hanging slightly over the eaves to listen for a hint of sound coming from her windows.

His hearing was sharp, and even through the distracting whistle of the wind in his ears, he could make out the occasional distinctive sound of pages being turned. He relaxed, pulling his head back from the dizzying drop and resting his chin atop his hands, eyes shut, listening to the noise as the wind fiddled with his hair and the sun warmed his back.

It did not bother him that he might have to wait a long time until Káta tired of reading and left her room. The impatience that had possessed him when he was in his rooms, away from Káta and unsure of what she was doing had cleared, replaced with a soothingly silent sensation of contentment that bordered on happiness and was very nearly foreign to him.

Knowing that she was there, close by and safe was enough for the moment, and Loki became faintly aware of the fact that his impatience to come back was less due to his still burning curiosity, and more linked to the growing nerves of anxiety had he had begun to develop during his period of absence from her presence. For throughout his deliberations and attempts to convince himself that he only wished to spend time with Káta for the amusement of her company, he had felt her absence from his life keenly, and anxieties about how she was and what she was doing had begun to grow in his mind. Every now and then they would needle him, like an undiscovered prickle hidden in his clothing, and he had no way of ignoring them. It did not help that his concerns were further fanned whenever he recalled the situation that he had left her in, and the company that surrounded her – for he knew that the Nipt Þrír meant to do no good to Káta.

Now, knowing that she was all right, such concerns were easily brushed away, and niggling worries about their manifestation and development were dismissed. The voice, which he had struggled with for so long in her absence, was now quelled by the mere fact of his overwhelming contentment.

Surprisingly comfortable in his position along the ridge, Loki half dozed, his lack of sleep from the previous night catching up on him and lying over him in a light blanket with the warmth of the sun.

He did not know how long he lay there for, too serene to take note of time, but all too soon it seemed his doze was interrupted by the sound of a door opening below, and a nymph’s voice broke the near silence.

“Come on, Káta; you said you would come and look at dress fabric with me, remember?” Loki leapt soundlessly into a crouch, suddenly perfectly awake and alert, listening intently, his head cocked on one side.

“Hmm? Oh…yes. Sorry, Rúna; I forgot.” Káta’s voice was slow and distant, as though she was preoccupied in thought.

“Are you all right?” Rúna asked, concernedly, clearly noticing the odd tone of her friend’s voice. Loki itched to see what was happening, but held himself in check.

“Oh, yes…I’m fine. I’ve just been…thinking is all.” Káta replied, still sounding thoughtful, then her tone changed, brightening. “Come on, let’s go.”

There were footsteps and the sound of the door shutting, then silence.

Loki remained on the roof, listening for a few more minutes until he was sure that Káta had left. Then he turned, gripping the peak of the gabled eaves, and swinging himself easily over the edge, hanging for a few breathless seconds over empty air and the long drop down to the far off ground, before kicking his legs and releasing his hold on the eaves, propelling himself towards Káta’s window ledge, and landing on it with feline grace.

He paused, straightening until he stood upright on the window sill, his dipped head brushing the very apex of the window arch. His body language radiated his wariness, his hands raised and held palm down before him as though to silence his appearance and lighten his presence in the room, though his eyes gleamed with starving curiosity.

Loki inhaled deeply, his mind nearly turned giddy from the strength of the delicious scent that always came from Káta. Now, given his almost certain suspicions about her parentage, the sharply sweet apple-like scent of her was explained, right down to the light floral overlay of apple blossom. Here in her room, just as yesterday, the smell was so strong as to be intoxicating. With a faint snarl and a shuddering of his eyelids Loki tore his mind back to himself, clamping down on his jubilant olfactory senses so he could give his attention to the rest of the room.

Some of the cautiousness in his air faded as the moments silently passed, reassuring him that Káta was not about to return, though he remained where he had first landed, slowly lowering his hands as his eyes flickered around the room, taking in every detail.

He had been gratified yesterday to note the presence of her writing desk, and the eclectic collection of books and papers that it had been home to, even if he hadn’t been allowed to examine them. Indeed, the main feature of her room seemed to be books. A good number that appeared to belong to her sat on various shelves and surfaces, and where room ran out, they stood in careful stacks against the empty spaces near the walls. At the sight, Loki felt a strong compulsion to acquire better shelves for Káta and to shift the books onto them for her as a surprise on her return. His prudence cautioned him against such action, however, for he knew that she was canny enough to connect the appearance of the shelves to him, and then to infer that he had been snooping about her room – something he was sure would not recommend him to her. No; if he was to do this, he had to execute it flawlessly, and leave no trace of his presence. He glanced around, taking stock of his surroundings.

Káta’s room was rectangular, and the window that Loki stood in was set into the centre of the longest outside wall. Opposite him, and slightly to his right, was the door. To his immediate left Káta’s desk was tucked against the wall he was aligned with, snugly fitting into the corner. Her bed had an identical position to Loki’s right, the bed head against the shorter outer wall, a couple of paces away from a second arched window, which was near the corner. In that corner stood a single full length bronze mirror, burnished so brightly that the light in the room appeared redoubled by its glow, and adorned with flower wreaths. Beside it, and against the wall that had the door, stood an open clothes chest, gowns spilling out of it in a colourful tumble, with another against the shorter inside wall, near Káta’s desk. He was surprised by their number and size, which were both modest by any person’s standards.

The curtains at the windows, long billowy sleeves of fabric, made the room feel more comfortable, but Loki came to the conclusion that Káta had been correct in her assessment yesterday that the walls were distinctly bare, especially in comparison to the sumptuousness of Valhalla, where bare walls were hard to come by. The floor was covered with several rugs and furs, however, and a set of low shelves near the door held an assortment of books, papers, and various odd items and curios – a circular hair comb and case in the design of the World Tree, smooth from decades of use; a small open box that held nestled inside it a number of intricately carved ivory, horn, metal, and wooden hair pieces; an small worn leather pouch that appeared to be empty; a necklace made of filigreed gold leaves; a small pot of flowers. These items spilled over onto her desk with its housing of assorted boxes, opened and unopened, although for the moment its surface was largely cleared for the project of her wall hanging design.

Loki frowned once more as his eyes travelled over the nearly completed borders of the pattern. It had struck him as odd yesterday that Káta was doing such handiwork. Most goddesses claimed that they did not have the time to design and make their own weavings, although by all accounts the women of Midgard put great stock and pride in their abilities to do so. The goddesses tended to prefer ordering and overseeing the creation of their soft furnishings, or simply buying those already made. That Káta was designing her own and clearly preparing to weave it herself served to raise her even further in Loki’s esteem, although he had never previously given much thought to the activity. His only true association with the task had been watching his mother weave during his childhood.

His eyes drifted over to her bed, which was made, although the furs that covered it were rumpled below a book that lay open atop them in a manner that led Loki to believe Káta had been lying on her bed as she read.

Now, assured that he had the run of her room, he stepped lightly down onto the floor, and idly sauntered over to her bed, leaning over it to examine the open book. He barely had to read a full paragraph before he realised that she had been re-reading ‘The Tale of Finnr and Ljúfa’. He frowned, calling to mind her apparent preoccupation earlier.

Still frowning faintly, he began to pace about, stalking with the measured graceful gait of a feline predator. He moved slowly, his eyes lingering on the objects he passed, one hand outstretched and gliding over the surfaces, never touching them, although there were moments when he paused.

His resolution not to touch anything however, crumbled as he began to examine Káta’s effects more closely, discovering various items that his fingers itched to touch, after which he spent a great deal of time minutely examining each item that caught his attention.

The first was a finely crafted wooden needle, the shaft of which was covered in impossibly intricate carved designs of trees. The next was a clutch of blue-grey river turned stones, so smooth to touch they felt like they were made of water, with a glass-like gleam to their surface, all sitting in a basket woven of vines, which still inexplicably had tiny leaf buds half unfurled along them. Another was a delicate brass spiral that hung from the arch of the other window, minute leaves and birds of exquisite craftsmanship hanging at intervals along its chased length from finely linked chains, which rang with the sound of wind in trees and bird song when he touched it. He did not know the significance of such items or why they had been singled out, for her room was relatively sparse in terms of decorations and clutter, and not all were innately valuable, but he was sure that for Káta to keep something, it had to be of great personal worth.

The small apple shaped from a nugget of gold which stood on her desk, however, he understood the importance of; a reminder of her mother. Just as her well and the apple tree were. Loki turned the object over in his hands, and glanced about the room over the other objects that he had picked up and replaced, wondering whether they too were mementos of her mother, or perhaps of wherever Káta had lived before she had come to Mærsalr.

Once finished examining those objects of interest, each time returning the article to its original position with deft precision, Loki settled himself on the floor before Káta’s many stacks and shelves of books, reading through the titles with interest, and occasionally removing a book to have a further perusal of its contents. The majority were myths and legends, although there were a great many about the city of Asgard, and the history of the Æsir. A good smattering of romances also filled the collection, and Loki did his best not to turn up his nose at them. Others were instructional or technical, and there were a good many that had music, either lyrics for singing, or notes for playing on a harp.

Satisfied with his exploration, Loki stood, a quick glance around the room confirming that Káta did not possess a harp of her own, despite the abundance in her collection of music. He moved in a last circuit of the room, pausing by the open clothes chest, his fingers threading through the pooling fabric of a gown that spilled out the trunk, pale leaf green and stitched with light gold thread.

Letting the fabric slip through his fingers, Loki stepped forwards, delicately spinning several new schemes in his mind, disappearing and leaving the room as he had come to it.

 

That night Loki did not even attempt to sleep. Instead he sat on the sill of his circular window, gazing out across the faintly gleaming vista of Valhalla and down to the distant winking lights of the city of Asgard, his eyes fixed skywards on the great shifting immensity of the sea of space, one arm resting on his peaked knee, his expression pensive. His mind was unusually calm, still sedate from his day’s activities, for he had spent the rest of the day turning over the various items of Káta’s possessions that he had examined in his mind, wondering over them and why they might be of importance to her.

Loki shifted slightly, lying back and tucking his hands behind his head, humming softly with faint satisfaction as galaxies swirled above him in the night sky, his thoughts were trained solely on her. The new anxieties about what Káta was doing and whether she was safe and happy had begun to surface in his thoughts once more, and his logic was doing difficult battle to keep them at bay with the knowledge that at such a time, she would obviously be asleep, and safe from any harm. The moment he thought that, however, the old desire to watch her as she slept rose once more, and that had grown into something that all his willpower and logic could not hold back for any amount of time.

A further few moments of struggle ensued before he began to fidget, moving to pace his rooms restlessly. If she woke while he was there, doubtless she would be furious with him, maybe even scared. He flinched at the thought. _Invisible_ , he thought, _I’ll be invisible_. The old voice in the back of his head snapped at him, telling him he was being ridiculous, making a fool of himself, that he should stop, but he shut it up with a snarl, dealing it a back handed blow fuelled by the terrified anger at the thought of not seeing Káta again. Annoyed, he shut the voice away in a dark corner of his mind, determined not to listen to it anymore; he was a God – he should be beyond such fears as it foretold.

That done, Loki disappeared, not even bothering to dress himself fully, but leaving wearing only the loose clothing that he favoured when confined to his rooms and in his own company.

 

In Káta’s room Loki stepped soundlessly down from the windowsill, cloaked in a light net of invisibility. He moved closer to the edge of her bed, and stood for a few moments, his head tilted to one side, smiling faintly.

Káta lay sprawled on her stomach in an oddly luxurious manner amongst her rumpled furs, her face snuggled into a pillow that her arms were wrapped around. Her hair was a tousled halo that was splayed across her pillows like thrown silk ruffled by the wind, and the furs had lifted over one of her legs, exposing a long length of fair smooth skin. She was easy to make out in the darkness, for her skin still gave out the same golden glow it had at the well, although now, perhaps because of her distance to the tree, it seemed fainter.

Loki remained where he was for a good while, unaware of the passage of time, his eyes fixed on Káta’s seraphic face, drinking her in. There was something about the all-pervading tranquillity of her slumber that was distilled in her expression, and just gazing upon her Loki already felt drunk on her serenity, as though it was a rich fine mead, chilled for many years beneath a mountain, now at last tapped and releasing the scent of its long awaited bouquet.

Eventually, Loki dragged his eyes away from Káta’s face, his mind dizzy with clarity and peacefulness, at long last taking in the rest of her. At the sight of her leg, his mouth twitched slightly, and he shook his head, laughing silently to himself. Carefully, he leant forwards, delicately lifting the furs and replacing them over her, for despite the night being mild her windows were open, and it wouldn’t be hard to get a chill from the night air if the temperature dropped.

Káta shifted slightly, wriggling a bit further into her pillow with a soft sigh, as Loki retreated to her now closed clothes chest near the door, sitting on its lid with his back against the wall, eyes fixed on the curve of her serene face. He did not have any intention of staying the whole night, he had already allayed his irrational fears from before and he had no intention of letting her catch him out if she woke before him in the morning, but he did wish to linger a little longer, if only to remain in her presence, soothed; mind, body, and soul.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay!! Celebration chapter for finishing exams! :D Also, the next four chapters have already been written (procrastawriting that occurred during the revision period XP) so there shall be NO hiatus whatsoever in their being delivered. However, I shall post them with sometime between each, otherwise it's all just a bit overwhelming ;)
> 
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	16. Vengeance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki begins to make a habit of checking on Káta every night before he goes to bed. One night, however, he gets delayed, and Spana and her sisters finally get a chance to execute their plans.

For the next few days it became a routine for Loki to wait several hours after night had truly fallen until he was sure that those parts of Asgard that weren’t feasting would be asleep, before he disappeared off to the nymph’s hall. After the first night, he dispensed with the precaution of invisibility, for the seiðr expenditure _was_ a drain, and there was little chance of Káta waking. He only spent the beginning of each night in Káta’s room, watching over her in her sleep for an hour or so, making sure that she was safe and tucked in, and letting himself drift into a state of relieved tranquillity in her presence, before returning to his own rooms to sleep.

Káta knew nothing of her night-time visitor, and she only saw Loki when he felt like materialising in her room, most often distracting her from whatever task she was engaged in; stealing away the things she was using and skipping out of reach when she tried to retrieve them, laughing, or plucking the book she was reading from her hands, examining it and pronouncing judgement. She did not particularly mind the distraction, although she had strong suspicions that he did it on purpose – the most trying thing was the unpredictability of his visits. He seemed to delight in surprising her each time, although ever since his first visit and the incident with the ink, he always made sure that she was not holding anything before announcing his presence, his warm delighted laughter filling the room when she jumped.

As Loki’s visits progressed, and their conversations continued, Káta began to share a little more of herself with him, sometimes taking him down to the gardens and sharing her favourite hidden haunts and grottoes, the two of them scaling trees and sitting amongst the leaves, their legs swinging over air. On the days that they remained in her room, Loki was still not allowed to touch her special possessions, but he frequently asked her questions about all sorts of topics, and it was not often that she would refuse to grant an answer. She, in turn, was allowed to ask him questions, and, depending on the nature of them, she generally received an answer.

With the progression of their conversations, Káta began to uncover more of Loki; the side of him that very few were privileged to see. She found that he had an innate sweetness to his personality, mischief aside, and he was peculiarly chivalrous. The first time they had gone tree climbing, she had torn her dress on the way down. Loki had asked to be shown the damage, and after a few moments of examining the rent in the fabric, had pressed the parted sections together between his index finger and thumb, running them along the length of the hole, and when he let go, it was as if the damage had never happened. It appeared to be a hallmark of his personality not to expect thanks or gratitude for the things he did, and as a result his kindnesses were executed without ceremony, although his surprise and pleasure when she voiced her appreciation were evident.

There were moments when it was her turn to surprise him, however, such as when she climbed trees, or scaled the decorative ruins in the gardens. The first time, he had thought to tease her, disappearing only to reappear atop a particularly steep fallen section of a wall. He had sat there, grinning at her, eagerly awaiting her foiled reaction, no doubt, not knowing that he had inadvertently chosen her favourite ruin. The incline was deceptive, and amongst all the ivy and moss, there were handholds and footholds aplenty. She had laughed at his astounded expression when she had quickly scaled the wall, sitting down beside him with a pleased plop. It had not been long before his expression had transformed into one of pleasantly surprised respect, however, laughing with her.

Most curious to both was the trickery that the other engaged in, and before the end of his first visit, their conversations had devolved into an idle game of faint one-upmanship, with each trying to outdo the other in recalled anecdotes of past schemes. There was little real competition between them, and more often than not they found themselves laughing fit to burst at each other’s japes, and occasionally suggesting improvements for future enactments. Loki even went so far as to use his seiðr to recreate events, seeming to enjoy her fascination with the moving figures of light that he created from nothing.

Barely four days had passed in this manner before both privately realised that they looked forward to their time spent together, for in each other’s company they were enjoying themselves and laughing a good deal more than they had in a long time.

 

*

 

In the intervening time since the infuriating discovery that Káta was not, in fact, a seiðkona, Spana and her sisters had been preparing. They did not intend to do any lasting damage to her, but all three had a powerful wish to discover exactly what she was, and to mete out the punishment they felt she had coming to her. To this end, Spana had spent some time hunting around a few of the less savoury areas of the various marketplaces of the city, and eventually met with a woman who, after an impatiently long two weeks, had returned with several compiled packets containing herbs and other, much nastier ingredients.

All three sisters had been in attendance as the woman mixed together the disgusting shrivelled oddments and foul liquids, eventually being presented with three small gourds. The first contained a dark liquid that she said would keep the drinker immobilised but conscious, the second was an odd silvery colour and would make the drinker speak the truth, and the last, a dull cloudy blue, was a sleeping draught. The last thing they received was a small vial of strongly smelling crystals; the antidote to the sleeping draught.

Now, with their concoctions at last in hand, the sisters were ready.

Spana stationed herself in her room seated before one of her mirrors, the three gourds hidden amongst the folds of her dress, ostensibly brushing her hair, but actually keeping her eyes trained on the reflection of the corridor beyond her open door that Káta would have to pass through on her way up to bed following the evening meal.

Lúta was with Róta, keeping a firm leash on her younger sister, the two of them watching Káta as she ate in the dining hall with Rúna, oblivious to their attention. When at last she made to leave, Lúta’s grip about Róta’s arm would have been strong enough to break the skin had her nails been any longer. Róta writhed, whining, and desperate to begin the plan before it was due, but upon meeting her sister’s dull eyes, fell silent and still. There were times when Lúta’s eyes took on an expression that was more terrifying than any amount of anger that could be summoned to Spana’s.

They waited until the dining hall had nearly cleared, and then slipped upstairs to Spana’s room, which was the closest to Káta’s, although still a fair distance, being on the level below. There they waited, Róta becoming ever more impatient, until the sounds in the halls began to quiet, night shrouding the corridors in darkness.

Once they were satisfied that the entire hall was asleep, they crept out, gliding silently along the passageways, their dresses streaming behind them in ghostly white ripples, making their way upstairs to Káta’s room.

It was a work of a heartbeat to pause and listen at the gap between the floor and the Káta’s door to know that she was asleep, and then to ease the door ajar and slip through the crack.

They all stood, arrested by the sight of the faint glow that Káta gave off, having never seen her in darkness before. The sisters exchanged suspicious glances, then Spana moved forwards, swiping her hand through the light. They all froze, waiting for something to happen.

When it became apparent that the light indicated nothing dangerous, Spana gestured silently towards Lúta, who produced a slender hollowed cow’s horn, the sort used to administer treatments to horses.

Róta hopped silently from foot to foot in anticipation as her sisters leant over the oblivious Káta, Spana removing the gourd containing the sleeping draught and taking out the stopper, as Lúta sat on her knees on the floor by Káta’s head, holding the horn in readiness, her eyes on Spana.

Spana nodded once towards Lúta, who turned to Káta and carefully began to slide the tip of the horn into the corner of her mouth, cautiously negotiating her way down past Káta’s teeth by touch. Káta shifted slightly, and Lúta froze, feeling the horn grate against Káta’s teeth and praying that she wouldn’t wake from the sensation.

She remained asleep, and after a few moments of deep breathing in which Lúta regained her nerve, she continued feeling down with the horn until she reached the slight gap where Káta’s teeth stopped, easing the horn past them and between her jaws, pushing the tip a little way down her throat.

Once in position, Lúta nodded to Spana, one hand slipping under Káta’s neck to lift her head slightly.

At her sister’s indication, Spana carefully poured the sleeping draft into the mouth of the horn, the blue liquid dribbling down, and collecting in a well at the base as it slowly trickled through the small hole at the bottom, and down Káta’s throat. All three watched intently as the level of the liquid slowly began to fall, looking for any sign that Káta might wake. Sweat had gathered on Lúta’s brow and even Spana’s usually steely expression was faintly anxious.

But she did not.

As the draught steadily vanished, eventually creating a tiny whirlpool in the base of the horn, all three released the breaths they had been holding. Lúta carefully manoeuvred the horn out, and they waited, Spana counting the time in her head that the woman had said it would take for the draught to take effect.

Eventually, she nodded. Róta prodded Káta experimentally, and when she did not react, they moved in. Lúta hauled off the heavy furs, and Spana pulled Káta’s drugged body, none too gently, off her pillows, dragging her out of her bed. Her heels hit the floor with what would have been a painful thump, the sound of which was muffled by the thickness of the stone floor, her limp body flopping at the movement, and nearly pulling her from Spana’s grasp. Róta took Káta by her legs, and after a few adjustments, with Lúta covering Káta’s glowing skin with a sheet, they were ready.

Lúta carefully peeked out down the corridor, checking the way was clear and opening the door, silently ushering her sisters and their unhelpful cargo out, before noiselessly closing the door behind her once they were moving down the passage.

It took a painfully long time to get Káta to Spana’s room, with Lúta’s eyes constantly darting about as she urged her sisters onwards, and Káta was dropped several times before they had even made it to the staircase.

By the time they were safely in the sanctuary of Spana’s room, and had dropped her unceremoniously in the middle of the floor, a number of faint bruises were already blooming on Káta’s skin.

Spana, still wiping the sweat from her brow, gestured to Lúta, who took out the horn once more, shaking a few drops of the sleeping draught from the tip, before simply opening Káta’s unresisting mouth, and holding the horn in place as she poured in the dark contents of the gourd that Spana handed her, watching as it slowly drained.

By the time the concoction was gone, Spana and Róta had recovered. Róta was pacing restlessly, her expression gleeful, and Spana’s eyes were viciously bright.

“I have been waiting a _very_ long time for this,” she said slowly, taking out the vial of crystals and waving the unstoppered tube beneath Káta’s nose.

 

*

 

Loki wearily pulled off his armour. Fastaðr, the weapons master, who was one of the few who treated Loki like a normal individual, had cornered him before the evening meal, demanding a bout in the sparring ring to ensure that Loki had fully recovered his fighting prowess. He had complained at Loki’s prolonged absence since his recent return to training, for in his eagerness to spend time with Káta, Loki had neglected most other areas of his usual life, although there were none who could truthfully claim that the God of Mischief had a routine.

The god of mischief had acquiesced, willing to find time for the master, and also thinking that it wasn’t necessarily a bad thing that he would be arriving late to the evening’s feast, hoping to avoid his family.

Their fight had been a good one; hard and fast, with both of them resorting to fighting dirty as their muscles tired and the time extended. Fastaðr had always maintained that once you learned how to fight by the rules, you had to learn how to fight without them – using a strict form against a flexible opponent was likely to get you killed if they were more skilled than you; it was one of the reasons why Loki actually liked him. Other gods considered such trickery to be underhanded and unbefitting of their honour. Loki considered such gods to be fools who would quickly die on a battlefield.

Eventually they had both conceded a draw, and gone at last to eat, still slick with sweat and recapping each other’s finer manoeuvres and ruses as they walked. With Fastaðr for company, Loki had actually lingered in the hall, eating and jesting until nearly all of the warriors surrounding them had disappeared with giggling serving girls and nymphs or drunk themselves into unconsciousness – draped across the tables or lolling bloated on the floor where they had fallen.

At long last, they parted ways, the usually dour weapons master singing a merry song about a little dvergr who lived in an anvil, supported by a pair of guards that Loki had assigned to see him safely back to his bed, while Loki disappeared, reappearing instantaneously in his own rooms.

His clothing removed, Loki sluiced himself down, the water running slick with the sweat from the fight, and towelled himself dry, going out onto his balcony and shaking his head, splattering his surroundings with flying water droplets from his hair. He gazed up at the slowly moving galaxies and supernovas that filled the sea of space above him. Such things were only visible from the tor of Valhalla; a privilege of the gods and goddesses, with those inhabitants of Asgard who lived at sea level seeing only the ordinary spangled heavens picked out in distant stars.

It was well past the time when he would usually have visited Káta, and the familiar niggling anxiety had begun to tingle in the back of his mind, as it did when he was away from her for too long. He moved back inside, pulling on his clothes, and vanished with a small smile to himself at the thought of seeing Káta again.

 

In Káta’s room, Loki paused. He only had to glance around once to know that she was not there, for the room was dark and entirely without the faint glow that she always gave off. Frowning a little, Loki turned on the spot, his brows quirked in confusion, not allowing himself to feel the fear that had begun to tense in his muscles. It was perfectly possible for Káta to be elsewhere, even if she had not given any indication of doing so earlier in the day when he had been with her, skipping pebbles on one of the lakes.

An idea rose in his mind, and he instantly disappeared.

 

At the well’s clearing, Loki cast about, not even bothering to turn himself invisible, tearing through the grass towards the well, hoping to see the bright luminescence that would indicate Káta’s presence; but there was nothing beyond the faint glow of the apple. The only other light to illuminate the dark shades was that which came from the moon and stars. Loki huffed, his control beginning to fray, his composure disturbed by Káta’s odd enforced disappearance. He rotated on the spot, his eyes flying over the thickets of the dark forest that surrounded him, searching for the faintest glimmer that might indicate that Káta was there. But it was in vain.

Breathing deeply, Loki collected himself, and disappeared once more.

 

Loki attempted every place he had been with Káta, every place he had seen her, moving through the locations faster and faster with each failed attempt to locate her, his anxiety rising in a swamping tide. The stables. The blue lake. The pavilion. The odd shaped rocks that look like stags. Her favourite tree to climb. The rose garden. The grotto with the secret tunnel. The maze. The ivy covered ruins. He tried them all. All came to naught.

 

Returning to Káta’s room, Loki gazed round, dazed, his throat thick with the panic that had risen in his blood. He brushed abstractedly through her room, eyes and hands flitting over objects until his eyes settled on her bed.

Her furs were heaped up in a discarded pile at the end, and one of her pillows had flopped off onto the floor, the sheet missing.

He froze, still for the first time since he had left her room, his eyes narrowing, a spark of dangerous fire flickering into existence in them. He stooped, and when he was upright once more, a small stopper was between his fingers. He sniffed at the mixture coating its end, and recoiled. Soporific. A sleeping draught.

Anger roared through him, burning up the frantic anxiety of before, and replacing it with hungry fires. He remained where he stood, eyes half closed, thinking. He took in a deep breath, and the movement of his head made the moonlight flicker briefly on a dark wet spot on the floor near the door. Quickly, he stalked over, his head weaving as he sought out the liquid, trying to change the angle of his sight until the moonlight flickered across the droplet again, pouncing like a cat when it did.

Crouching, Loki lowered his face towards the liquid and sniffed, withdrawing rapidly as the same sleep-inducing stench reached his nostrils. He looked up, his gaze fixing on the closed door, and within moments was through it, his eyes trained on the stone floor of the corridor beyond, seeking out the dripped trail of liquid, rescue and retribution in mind.

 

*

 

Káta scrunched her eyes. Her mind felt like it had been filled with fluff, her thoughts cloudy and thinking difficult, her eyelids lying heavily over her eyes, unwilling to obey her desire to open. She tried to frown, but those muscles didn’t seem to be working either, and when she moved to rub her eyes with her hand, nothing happened.

Then, a strong disgusting smell filled her nostrils, punching a hole in her olfactory senses so large that her eyes felt blinded from it. Whatever it was, it seemed to help, however, for the drowsy haze lifted from her mind like a curtain ripped back to reveal the sun, and when she had stopped seeing stars she managed to open her eyes.

She really wished she hadn’t.

Spana, Lúta, and Róta loomed above her, their faces uncomfortably close, and at completely the wrong angle. It was their expressions that she wished she hadn’t seen, however. Maliciously delighted.

Her first reaction was to sit up, words rising to her mind which would make the Nipt Þrír move away, but neither happened. Káta froze, attempting to frown in her confusion, but unable to, her eyes flickering anxiously from side to side as she tried to figure out what was happening to her.

She tried to move again, to sit up, to open her mouth, to lift her finger; anything! But nothing happened. She tried to scream, to call for help, to entreat the sisters to give her aid, but her lips wouldn’t open, and she had no control over her vocal chords anymore. Her body was useless, unresponsive to her increasingly panicked attempts to move it; and Spana and her sisters had a terrible knowing look in their eyes, their glee rising with her terror.

Her body was filling with fear that would have made her muscles shake under ordinary circumstances, but now all she could do was remain stuck in her frozen body, feeling her heartbeat rising, trapped with only her terrified thoughts.

Káta paused, trying to convey through the expression in her eyes that the sisters had to help her, they had to stop whatever was happening, but Spana was smiling broadly, and Róta was doing a little victory dance somewhere beyond her vision, for Káta could feel the vibrations of her footfalls. Enjoyment had even risen to Lúta’s cold eyes. Káta closed her eyes gently, knowing that she would receive no help from them, and trying to calm herself.

_Crack!_

Káta felt her head snap sideways, her eyes flying open as her temple slammed into the stone floor, oaths rising to her mind ready and trying to be spoken, although the silence was not broken. She lay, breathing hard through her nose, unable to pant through her mouth, gazing at Lúta’s feet and the area beneath Spana’s bed, feeling the stinging hand-shaped imprint burning across her cheek.

Then she felt hard cold fingers grasp her by the chin, turning her head back to face forwards, and she was eye to eye with Spana, whose expression was furious.

“ _Don’t_ close your eyes,” she hissed wrathfully, maniacal anger in her eyes.

Káta blinked, her eyes slightly scrunched at the pain coming from Spana’s biting grip on her chin, but she did not close them.

Spana glared at her for a few moments more, then released her with a snarl, standing up and moving to talk with Lúta. Káta strained to listen to their conversation, her eyes following Spana to the edge of her vision, after which she disappeared.

“An hour,” Lúta was whispering. “Then it will start to wear off, and we can give her the truth solution. She’ll be able to answer but not run…but Spana, how are we going to stop her from telling Freyja and everyone?” There was a pause that Káta could not tell to be ominous or not, but eventually Spana spoke.

“Leave that to me – there are ways of achieving these things.”

There was another pause, longer drawn out this time. “You’re not going to _kill_ her, Spana?” Lúta whispered, and for the first time in her association with the Nipt Þrír, Káta felt sure that she had heard a faint note of concern in Lúta’s voice.

Spana’s reply was blotted out by the sudden and shocking appearance of Róta however, and had she been able to, Káta would have jumped. Róta giggled, pleased with the reaction she had received, reading Káta’s emotions in her eyes.

“Oh, we’re going to have so much fun,” Róta whispered slowly, the hint of a giggle in the back of her throat. “A whole hour of fun.”

Káta focussed on regulating her breathing, letting her eyes lose focus on Róta’s vindictive countenance and shift towards the ceiling. An hour wasn’t so bad, she reasoned; they couldn’t do much to her, and vicious as the sisters were, she did not truly believe that they would actually resort to serious physical violence. If she was lucky they would just hit her a few more times, maybe taunt her, and get bored with their deformed game.

As Róta disappeared from her vision Káta internally sighed. Her body felt bruised all over already, and she wondered how they had even managed to get her into Spana’s room.

Her thoughts were disrupted however as Spana swooped back into her vision, kneeling beside her on the floor. Káta watched as best she could as Spana reached towards her neck, eyes widening slightly, and the expression in them momentarily becoming desperate as Spana’s slim fingers came back into view, pulling with them the dangling pendant that Káta always wore about her neck.

The object was a slender oval of amber that the dryads in the orchards had all contributed to, as clear as glass, with a tiny flower from the oldest magical apple tree preserved in the middle. It was something that Káta had not shown to anyone the entire time she had been in Asgard, not even Loki.

“Now…what is this?” Whispered Spana softly, her eyes flickering between the swinging pendant and Káta’s eyes.

Káta glared at Spana with as much hate as she could muster. If she did _anything_ to the pendant…

“Oh, we’ve got something special, I think,” Spana continued, turning to share a faint laugh with her sisters, who had come into Káta’s field of vision once more, their expressions dancing with spiteful enjoyment. Spana turned back to Káta. “Why haven’t you shared this with us, little Káta?” She asked teasingly, her voice mockingly coquettish.

Káta’s eyes narrowed, promising painful retribution, her mind filled with an endless torrent of the blackest oaths she could think of. Spana ignored it.

“Is it something that will tell us what you are? Hmm?” Spana glanced at Káta for a sign that she was on the right track, but the hate in Káta’s eyes did not waver. Spana sighed wistfully, regarding the dangling pendant. “In that case, it is of no importance to us, and we really can’t have our apple girl keeping secrets, can we?” Spana asked, sharing a glance with her sisters, who nodded with mocking sincerity. Káta’s expression faltered a little as dreaded suspicions began to rise to her mind, and she watched with anxious eyes as Spana turned to her once more. “Secrets are bad, poisonous things…and we can’t keep things that are full of secrets, can we?” She said sweetly.

Káta watched in fearful anticipation as Spana examined the pendant a little more closely, hoping against hope that what she was thinking wasn’t on the nymph’s mind.

“No.” Spana said, her voice suddenly hard.

With a rough jerk, she yanked at the chain, breaking it, and dropping it, holding the pendant instead between her finger and thumb, rotating it a little.

“No, we most certainly can not.” She glanced towards Káta, malicious glee dancing in her eyes, as distress and terrified realisation flooded Káta’s, her eyes unashamedly begging Spana not to proceed, wet with fear.

Locked in her body, Káta fought with every ounce of her strength, trying to move, to speak, to release the terrified scream that had built up around her throat and which was already ringing in her ears, turning herself dizzy with the strain she was putting herself under, the veins in her temples and neck rising in ropes as her skin flushed with blood.

Spana lifted her other hand, holding the two ends of the amber oval, her eyes boring into Káta’s, feeding on the desperate fear in her expression, as she slowly applied more and more pressure to the pendant.

Káta watched drenched with horror that would have immobilised her had she already not been so as her pendant began to curve, the bend in it growing greater and greater. Silence seemed to have fallen in the room, broken only by Káta’s increasingly erratic breathing as the curve continued to increase.

Then, there was a sharp crack, and the amber broke, shattering in a miniature explosion of dust particles, the encased flower flying into the air.

Inside her body Káta was screaming, and tears leaked slowly from the corners of her eyes, slipping down her face as her body torso shook with her constricted sobs.

“Oops,” Spana said, her tone infuriatingly sweet, her expression a mask of fake sorrow, even though her eyes were alight with enjoyment. She dropped the pieces of amber that she still held, not even glancing down to see them bounce and skitter along the floor. “Did I break your heart?” Spana whispered in mocking enquiry.

Káta glared at her through her tears, attempting to lunge at the smiling nymph out of habit, and becoming even more infuriated at the lack of response from her body.

The Nipt Þrír were laughing together, enjoying the spectacle, and Káta screwed up her eyes, shutting out the sight of them, even if she couldn’t block her ears. None noticed the trails of grey smoke that began to flow in under the closed door, roiling about as though angry.

Then Lúta let out a gasp, pointing with fear in her eyes, and her sisters turned to gaze with alarm at the smoke, which had begun to gradually build and build until it stood in a thick agitated cloud as high as the handle.

Káta could see none of it, and was only aware of the sounds of fright coming from the sisters, although she strained to catch a glimpse of whatever it was that had so scared them. Then there was a faint scream from Róta and an animalistic snarl and before Káta could think which way to look a great black furred body, lithe with muscle bounded over her, a deep throaty growl rumbling through its rib cage and into hers as it stood protectively over her. She felt the lash of its tail against her ankles, the fur thick and soft, and became vaguely aware that the creature standing over her was some sort of huge feline. But she was too heartsick to be frightened by the beast, and could not even spare much thought to the fact that it appeared to be protecting her.

Spana, Lúta, and Róta had backed against the far wall when the great cat had first leapt forwards, its fangs bared in a snarl, and remained pressed there as it stood, crouching low over the still immobilised Káta. Its eyes were a furious blazing green, and terribly knowing as it gazed at them, its mouth open in a low rumbling growl. They all knew that cats were associated with Freyja. How the goddess had found out about what they were doing, they did not know, but the creature had to have come from her.

Loki was enraged, the fur along his jaguar body on end in his fury, only just managing to control his anger. Fear for Káta’s safety had fuelled him until that moment, but now it had been converted into pure rage. He had followed the dripped trail along the corridors of the halls, until he came to the door, and had listened for a moment, trying to figure out who was in there with Káta. It barely took him a moment before he recognised Spana’s voice, and a few moments more before a suitable scheme formulated in his mind. He had nearly thrown the plan over when he had first entered the room as smoke at the sight of Káta’s tears, but if he wished to keep the Nipt Þrír silent about the matter, then he had to be strategic. Taking on a cat form, he knew they would draw a connection to Freyja, and that it would be enough to silence them, for lawless as the sisters were, he knew that they would never question the actions of their presiding goddess. It was a more tenuous hope that by rescuing Káta in this form it would dissuade them from future reprisals if they believed her to be under Freyja’s explicit protection. Now, as he stood over Káta, he glanced down to where her head rested between his forepaws. She was staring up at him, the only part of her that she could move her eyes. The expression in them was infinitely sad, and as their eyes met hers became entreating. He dipped his head, brushing his forehead against hers and sending her into sleep. Before Loki could do anything further, however, a sound came from the direction of the Nipt Þrír, and he whipped his head back up once more, eyes fixed unblinkingly on Spana where she had frozen in her attempt to sneak past him.

Spana gazed into the eyes of the huge black beast, rigid with fear, hoping that it would ignore her. The rumbling growl issuing from its mouth began to grow in volume however, its lips rippling back to reveal a set of teeth capable of crushing the breath out of a horse. She let out a frightened squeak, beginning to backpedal towards her sisters where they crouched by her bed. She did not move fast enough, however, for the cat lashed out, its hooked claws catching her in the forearm and dragging their way along the entire length, drawing a scream of pain and fear from her.

Loki barked out a further chesty growl as Spana fell back into the arms of her sisters, tears in her eyes as she cradled her wounded arm. He had not badly injured her, just given her a painful memento; four long scratches. He gazed down at Káta once more, his tail still lashing with his unreleased anger, then dissolved into smoke, wrapping himself around her form and disappearing to her room.

 

In Káta’s room, Loki reappeared in his natural form, cradling her in his arms. He walked over to her bed, gently laying her on it, and checking her over for injuries. She had a number of superficial bruises, and a red mark across her cheek that he knew was from a slap. His blood boiled for a moment, and he closed his eyes for a few long minutes, breathing deeply until the red mist of rage had subsided.

He passed a hand over her chest, drawing out the influence of the drugs the Nipt Þrír had administered, then leant over to the small stool that stood beside Káta’s bed, hooking one of its legs with his foot and dragging it over, and opening up his left hand, which had been closed in a fist. Nestled inside were the remnants of Káta’s pendant, the fine powder of dust sticking to his skin. He had noticed them when he had first entered Spana’s room, gliding over them as smoke, and the pieces had been imbued with Káta’s scent. Carefully, he tipped the fragments onto the stool, dusting off the particles, before standing, shrouding himself in invisibility once and lifting his sleeping spell from her as he backed away to sit on her windowsill.

Káta came back to herself abruptly. Her mind had been filled with painful flying images and the fear of not being able to move. The moment she woke, she catapulted upright in her bed, panting, fear shaking her breaths. She grasped her pillows tightly, nearly bursting them from the force of her grip, her blood thundering through her body. Her mind spun as she gazed about, taking in the details of her room.

Then her hand flew to her neck, feeling for the chain that she knew wouldn’t be there, and a pained whimper escaped her lips. She remembered everything that had happened to her in Spana’s room; the taunting, her necklace, and the entrance by the huge black cat. After it had touched her forehead with its own she had blacked out, but she thought it safe to assume that it or something else had saved her and brought her back to her own room.

She swung her legs out of bed, wincing as a number of bruises made their presence known, aching for a drink. For all that she had not been able to make any noise, her throat felt raw. She crossed to her desk, pouring out a measure of cooling water from the metal pitcher there, gulping it down, the liquid soothing her parched throat. She did not want to think about what had happened any further, such things could wait until morning; for now all she wanted was the peace of rest. She dragged herself back to her bed. Her eyes were half shut, and she nearly tripped over her stool, catching herself on the edge of the bed, her eyes flying open just in time.

There was a faint clatter, and she frowned, leaning down to see what she had knocked over. Káta froze, a disbelieving shiver passing through her body as she saw the broken pieces of her pendant scattered on her floor, the flower undamaged in the middle. A dry sobbing gasp escaped her, and she reached out with trembling hands, gathering the fragments together, and cradling them to her chest, rushing over to her desk and shutting them all away in a small box that she took back to bed with her, clasped between her hands as she at last lay down and slept.

Loki watched from his place on the windowsill, his eyes glittering in the darkness. His breathing eased as Káta lay down, quickly slipping into sleep. He had no intention of leaving her alone tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a few concerns about this chapter, primarily regarding Loki appearing like a stalker, whether or not there was enough suspense with Káta's kidnap, and if Káta folded too easily or not.  
> Fingers crossed I achieved what I wanted! *hopeful smile*
> 
> Fastaðr means 'firm', 'fast', 'strong/fight'. I thought it an appropriate name for a weaponsmaster ;)  
> Also, "dvergr" is one word for a dwarf.
> 
> Please do comment :) Tell me what you like or don’t like :)  
> Also, if you like this story, or any of my other ones, and you want access to sneak previews on chapters that I'm working on, Like my Facebook page, or Follow my Twitter :)  
> https://www.facebook.com/josephinetomkinsauthor  
> https://twitter.com/jtomkinsauthor


	17. Pasts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following her ordeal with the Nipt Þrír, Káta discovers that the only person she can turn to comfort for is the last person that any other in Asgard would think of.

Loki did not sleep that night, and he did not leave Káta’s room until she woke. Then, in respect of her privacy, and knowing that she was safe now that she was conscious, he returned to his own rooms.

His absence was short lived, however, for after taking a brief rest and eating a scanty morning meal, he returned to her room, for once without the intention of surprising her.

 

Káta sat on her bed, forlornly regarding the broken pieces of her pendant. She had gone down to breakfast that morning, chin up, determined to ignore the Nipt Þrír if they attempted to start anything. Internally she was still shaken from the night’s events, but she refused to let them know; weakness before the sisters now could result in much greater nastiness later on. They had not attempted to accost her in any way, however. Spana’s right forearm was swathed in white bandages for some reason, and she was pointedly ignoring Káta. Lúta had momentarily regarded her with a wary expression before busying herself with her food, and Róta had nearly leapt out of Káta’s way when their paths crossed, her expression fearfully deferent. Rúna had vaguely noticed Róta’s odd behaviour with a faintly raised eyebrow, but Káta said nothing to her friend about the matter. She knew that this was not something that could be shared with Rúna; it was too personal and too painful.

Their behaviour had been something of a relief. Inexplicable as the rescue was, Káta was fairly sure that she could put it down to Freyja, and after eating had gone to the small pavilion devoted to the goddess, standing before her statue for a few moments of silent reflection, before passing into the small alcove behind to light a blóð húsl candle of her thanks on the stone hörgr.

Once back in the privacy of her room, however, Káta had let the shuddering fear that the experience had generated come back to her. She had never been so utterly helpless in her entire life. If the Nipt Þrír had only wished to taunt her, that would have been fine. They did that on a regular enough basis in any case, and not being able to reply to them was neither a blessing nor a curse, and a good trick later down the line could have settled any ill-feelings created by such an encounter. It was the pendant, and being unable to do anything to stop them from destroying it.

Káta cradled the pieces sadly. Quite a number of things in her room had been given to her by either her mother or the dryads over the course of her life, and on her leaving the orchards, but the pendant had carried with it the good wishes of all of them. They had made it especially for her departure, keeping it a secret until they gave it to her. On days when she felt homesick but wasn’t able to go to her well, Káta held her pendant and looked at the flower in the amber, and soothed herself with memories of home. Just as with her well and the apple tree, it was something deeply personal, and now the Nipt Þrír had spoiled it.

She sniffed a little, unable to keep back all her sorrow. Now she waited for Loki. In the past few days he had never given her any indication of whether or not he would come, or what time of the day that he would arrive, although he was never tardy and generally appeared in the early morning. The only thing she knew for certain was that he would come to her room. Of all the people she had met since coming to Asgard, he was the only one she felt she could share this with, and she knew that she had to share it with someone or else burst from containing all the emotion. Fróði she would not dream of burdening with such a matter; he was not someone that she wanted worrying about her. Loki, however…she wasn’t quite sure what it was that gave her such confidence in him, but Káta knew that he was the only one she really wished to confide such things in. When she was with Loki she could be utterly herself; it wasn’t just her against the others. She knew from Fróði and her own observations that Loki had experienced more ostracism than she ever had, but the common experience helped bind them together. They were yet to tackle such topics, but both were aware of the other’s experiences. There were parts of him that she felt to be similar to her own. She had shared more of herself with him than she had with any other in the past twelve years, and beneath his mischief and lies and trickery and pain and troubles, she knew his heart was gentle and kind. He had shown it to be so countless times in the past few days they had spent together, not through any pointed declarations or grand deeds, but in little gestures; the gentleness in his eyes and his undeniable courtesy.

Now, as she gazed at the fragments of her pendant, a new thought rose to Káta’s mind. She knew that Loki was a powerful practitioner of seiðr – spending even a few hours in his presence told her that, for there were times when he used seiðr the way most people used their hands – and her thoughts now turned to how he had managed to fix the tear in her dress. She had no guarantee that he would fix her pendant if she asked him to; there were times when his temper was as mercurial as his nature, but he was not prone to deliberate unkindness.

There was a faint swish of fabric, and a rattle of metal buckles.

Káta turned eagerly at the sound, and saw the young god standing in the middle of her room, his expression tentative. She did not know what made her do it, but there was something about the sight of him after that night which broke her usual sense of what was normal. Her heart suddenly felt too big, trapped in her chest, and she could feel her face crumpling as tears rose unbidden to her eyes and shivers trembled her muscles. Embarrassed at her reaction, she hid her face in her hands, trying to still the wave of emotion that had crashed down on her, but unable to stop it now that it had begun.

Loki faltered. He had never had to deal with crying females in his entire life, not like this, and he had never received such a reaction before. Nor had he expected Káta to cry; it was utterly out of character. She was practically defined by her unstinting cheerfulness. The sudden change shook him. “Káta?” He asked hesitantly, his concerned eyes fixed on her shaking form. “Káta, do you want me to leave?” She shook her head, her face buried in her hands as the painful overcome sobs continued to choke out of her. She managed to hold in the unhappy sounds for a few seconds, her eyes peering out between her fingers, apologetic red-rimmed liquid gold pools.

At that moment, something clicked inside him and Loki moved forwards, sitting beside her on the edge of her bed. His arms had barely opened before she was in them, her face turned into his chest as she rode out the tide of feeling, her hands grasping the front of his clothing like he was a lifeline. Some instinct had taken over for Loki, and he put his arms around her with only a little awkwardness, drawing her in closer, and holding her shaking body firmly against him, his hands rubbing her back gently. It was an entirely foreign experience. No one had ever come to him for solace in his entire life, but even as he comforted Káta he felt the actions soothing something within his own soul. It surfaced very old memories from his childhood, which had been buried deep under uncountable layers of dark thoughts and bad experiences, of the last time he had been held and comforted in such a manner by Frigg. His arms tightened about Káta slightly, bringing her in closer, his mouth making gentle soothing sounds unbidden. There was something deeply natural about it all.

Káta sobbed and sobbed and sobbed. She did not know exactly what had caused all the pent up emotion that she was now releasing, but it was not simply because of what had happened last night; that was just a trigger. All the same, she felt distinctly pathetic for collapsing in such a manner on Loki, sure that it would if not terrify him, then at least mean he would never come see her again. It had been the greatest surprise in the Nine Worlds when he had sat beside her, opening his arms, and letting her into his embrace. She clung to him like a child, but it was the comfort she needed. She had not felt such security since leaving home; that was the seat of her sadness, she knew now. She had been keeping so many secrets and feelings shut away for so many years that now, at last, it was all being released. Her heartsickness for home welled up in one great wave, like it had been building and building across leagues of sea ever since she left the orchards, waiting to rush in and swamp the shore. She tried to choke out an apology for her behaviour when she at last managed to save enough breath between her sobs, but Loki only hushed her, holding her close. The gesture only served to increase the strength of her sobs, although in an oddly happy sort of way.

Eventually, Káta’s sobs subsided from the deep wracking ones of heartache to gentler hiccupping ones, and she managed to pull her face from Loki’s chest. His tunic was drenched with a large puddle of tears, the cold wet fabric sticking in a vaguely uncomfortable manner to his skin, but Loki paid it no heed. His eyes were gazing concernedly into Káta’s. Her face was puffy with crying, as were her eyes, the lashes stuck together in tiny wet triangles by her tears, and every now and then she would pull an almighty sniff.

“Sorry,” Káta muttered thickly, pulling away a little further, managing a wobbly apologetic smile.

Loki found himself not quite willing to relinquish his hold on her, one hand remaining on her back, and pulled a handkerchief from a pocket. “Don’t be,” he replied, handing her the square of linen. Káta smiled again, this time gratefully, and accepted the handkerchief.

“Thank you.” Loki was not sure whether he had ever heard two more heartfelt words in his life, and he knew she was not merely talking about the handkerchief.

“Are you all right?” He asked, at last pulling back a little to afford Káta a little more personal space as she dipped her head and blew.

Káta let out a shaky laugh, nodding. “Yes…I’m just being silly.”

Loki sat silently for a few moments. His instinct seemed to have dried up along with Káta’s tears, and now he had no idea what to do. His thoughts turned to Fróði, and he perked up a little as a tiny trickle of inspiration began to come. “Would you…do you want to talk about it?” He asked unsurely.

Káta heaved a deep, heavy sigh, regarding her hands as they fiddled with the corner of the handkerchief. Her silence lasted so long that Loki’s anxieties began to rise, and a barrier of awkwardness began to build in him. Then, slowly, “Last night…I don’t know what happened… I…um.” Káta looked up at Loki, and he could see the scatter of emotions in her eyes. “You’ve probably noticed that Spana and her sisters don’t like me much,” she began, looking back down at her hands once more. Loki nodded; it was something that was rather hard to miss. “And generally that’s fine, and we rub along, I guess, and they tease me, and I flick it back at them. I mean, I don’t mind that they don’t like me; that fine – not everyone you meet is ever going to like you… It’s just sometimes…” Káta pulled another difficult breath, “sometimes being on the receiving end of that all the time is just so… _tiring_.” Káta glanced up momentarily, and caught a flicker of empathy in Loki’s eyes.

What she said was intimately familiar to Loki. Except that it was what he received from almost everyone he met who knew who he was. And it _was_ tiring; it was exhausting. Right down to the bone. But he didn’t have the luxury of letting such things affect him the way Káta had. He had to bury the hurt deep if he wanted to be able to function at all; shrug it off – water off a duck’s back. He was a God. Gods did not show such weaknesses. He had learnt that lesson early from his father.

“…but last night,” Káta shook her head. “I don’t know. They did… _something_ …to me.” Her fingers began to fiddle with the handkerchief again, and they both watched as the edges began to unravel. “I…I couldn’t _move_.” Káta whispered. “I couldn’t do anything; just watch and be helpless.”

The words were a great effort. Saying them made the whole thing feel so much more real; until then she had been able to almost pretend that it was all a dream, and that she was still dreaming, but now everything was cold, hard reality.

“They’ve always been curious about where I’m from, about who I am, and I think last night they were going to try and make me tell them. But then…” Káta’s breath shook. “They were toying with me, and Spana…” Káta paused, biting on her lower lip, her mouth and eyes pressed tightly shut, frowning. She let out a sigh. “Spana found my necklace…and she broke my pendant.” Her voice cracked on the word ‘broke’. “And then…I don’t know what happened. I think Freyja intervened. This enormous black cat appeared out of nowhere, and then I blacked out. I woke up in my bed with the pieces of my pendant. I guess something more happened to scare them after I was unconscious, maybe Freyja appeared and gave them a warning…but they’re definitely leaving me alone now, and Spana has some sort of injury on her arm. I’m sorry,” Káta shook her head, “this must be making no sense whatsoever.”

Loki shook his head. “No, it’s fine,” he replied. He sat had through her retelling in silence until that moment. It was interesting to find that they shared certain experiences, albeit on differing magnitudes. It was gratifying to hear that the Nipt Þrír were keeping their distance from Káta as well, and he was pleased that Káta had not figured out his involvement in last night’s events. The notion of revealing his part in her rescue was not one that appealed to him; some secrets were best kept unsaid. “It seems you have Freyja to thank, in that case,” he said.

Káta nodded. “So it would seem.” She fiddled with the frayed threads of the handkerchief absently for a few moments, before she seemed to realise what she was doing. “Oh, um…sorry.” Loki smiled faintly, passing an idle hand over the fabric, which instantly repaired and cleaned itself. Káta watched the seiðr take place with much greater interest than she ever had before, and Loki eyed her shrewdly.

“What is it?” Káta jumped slightly at the question, startled by the attentiveness of his observation. She blushed slightly, then turned away from him for a moment, picking up the carved box containing her pendant fragments from where she had set it in the middle of her bed when Loki had first arrived, turning slowly back to him.

Loki knew what was in it already, but took the box as she proffered it to him, gazing into her eyes for her permission before opening the lid. The pieces of her pendant that he had recovered last night lay at the bottom, the shards and crystals of amber sparkling slightly as his breath ruffled the flower.

“I lived in my mother’s orchards before I came here,” she said tentatively, heedless of the fact that she had never spoken of her origins thus far in their acquaintance. “I was looked after dryads most of the time, and they made this for me when I left…could you…could you fix it? Like you fixed the handkerchief, and my dress?”

Loki let out a deep sigh, closing his eyes for a moment. The amber was magical and would not take well to being refused with seiðr. He pinched the bridge of his nose, frustrated with his own powerlessness to help Káta when she so evidently needed him.

Káta knew the news would not be good the moment Loki sighed, but she held her tongue, aware that interjecting would not be a good idea. She waited patiently, a little on edge, until he opened his eyes once more and gazed at her. The anguished expression in them made her heart quail, but at the same time was faintly cheering for some odd reason.

“I can’t fix this seamlessly the way I can with other things,” Loki said heavily, his eyes gazing directly into Káta’s. “The amber has a seiðr of its own that means I can’t reassemble it without leaving behind traces of the damage.” He watched as Káta’s sad eyes widened, surprised at the sudden flush of glad relief that filled her expression.

“No, no; that’s fine!” Káta exclaimed, struggling to contain her happiness. “I don’t care. If you can fix it in any way, that’s fine… Please.”

Loki regarded her seriously for a few moments, but the earnestness in Káta’s expression was absolute. Eventually, he nodded, then turned to the box in his hands, tipping out the fragments onto one palm. He prodded through them a little, examining them closely, before holding his other hand palm down over them.

Káta watched as the pieces began to shift together across Loki’s hand, reforming themselves, the flower placed exactly where it had been before. Once all the pieces had been resituated, right down the tiny specks of amber dust, the air between Loki’s palms began to shimmer with heat waves, the reformed pendant floating in the rippling space. Loki’s hands shook slightly, and the amber glowed brighter and brighter until Káta had to screw up her eyes against it.

Then there was a brief flash, and Loki lifted his topmost hand away, bouncing the pendant in his palm slightly as though it was hot.

“Here,” he turned to her, taking one of her hands by the wrist and tipping the now whole pendant onto her palm.

The amber was warm to touch, and Káta lifted it up to the light. What had once been a clear oval was now striated with faint bands of gold veins where the breakages had occurred, and which glinted in the sunlight, the flower untouched and perfect in the middle.

Loki watched Káta’s reaction carefully, anxious to discover whether or not she regretted asking him to fix the pendant. Her mouth was faintly open as she gazed at the pendant, turning it from side to side, and then the wind was knocked out of him as she suddenly cannoned into his chest, her arms wrapped tightly around him.

“Thank you, Loki.” The words were muffled, spoken into his shoulder, but he could feel the genuine warmth in them. Awkwardly, Loki closed his arms around her once his initial shock had subsided. It was an unusual sensation, being hugged. Thor sometimes gave him bone crunching clasps, and his mother sometimes embraced him, but this was something quite different.

“You’re welcome,” he mumbled. The words felt odd in his mouth. He had no idea when it was that he had last spoken them.

Káta at last seemed to become aware of how tightly she was holding him, and released the grip of her arms with an embarrassed laugh, rocking back. “Sorry,” she murmured, a faint flush rising to her cheeks. Loki felt suddenly very deprived at the abrupt end to the hug, but Káta did not notice the momentary flash of wanting in his expression, her eyes fixed on the pendant once more. “I just…it means a lot to me.” She looked up at him, smiling widely, her earnest eyes gentle. “It’s a piece of home.” Her happy expression saddened a little, and she turned to gaze wistfully over her shoulder at the spiral brass wind chime that hung from her corner window, watching as a little eddy of wind spun it, setting off a gentle succession of wind tossed foliage and birds’ voices.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” Loki asked gently after a few minutes had passed, in which the silence between them had been filled with the sound of the wind chime’s music, his eyes shifting from the device back to Káta’s turned head.

“I bought that in the marketplace here seven years ago,” she replied softly, in a faraway voice, her thoughts deep in the past, remaining as she was, her eyes fixed on the shifting pieces of singing metal. “It reminds me of home on windy nights…helps me forget where I am. Between waking and sleeping I can imagine myself back under the apple trees.”

“Do you not like it here?” He asked quietly, eyes fixed on his hands.

Káta turned around at that, her eyes settling on him with a light gaze of gentle clarity. “It’s not my home,” she replied, broken out from her musing reminiscence by the unintentional diffidence of his tone, and Loki looked up as she replied. “It’s nice and it’s different…but it’s not my home.”

Loki’s eyes shifted between Káta and the wind chime once more, and then around the room to the other precious possessions he had examined. “Is that what all your special things are? Reminders of home?” He asked.

Káta tilted her head to one side, half smiling as she thought, then hopped off the bed without giving him an answer, moving over to her desk. Loki swivelled with her, watching as she picked through the varied contents of the table, stringing her pendant on a new chain and settling it about her neck once more with a little sigh of homecoming, before plucking out a small box of some sort, and skipping back to the bed. She sat in the middle, her legs crossed under her skirts, facing him. “Boots.”

Loki knew what she meant, pulled his boots off, and then turned to face her across the bed, his own legs crossed beneath him as she held out the box she had brought over. Loki regarded it as it sat in her palm. It was about as large as a die used in a game of knucklebones, and was covered in fine grooves.

“Take it,” she urged, smiling, when he made no move toward the object. Loki put out his hand, and she tipped it onto his palm. “It’s a puzzle,” Káta explained as he began to turn the cube over, running his fingers over all the grooves, and quickly discovering that they were created by the many interlocking pieces. “The dryads made it for me when I was a child. It took me decades before I managed to solve it for the first time.” Her voice smiled with a contained laugh at the memory. “Now it’s not so much of a struggle, and more like meeting an old friend to put it together.” She smiled nostalgically. “You can have a go if you like.” Káta leant forwards, and with a deft flick of her fingertips the entire cube broke apart into scores of tiny shaped rods of smooth wood, filling Loki’s palm. “There are ninety nine pieces.” Káta said, smiling as she watched Loki already beginning to puzzle over the conundrum that the cube presented. “Take it with you; it might take you longer than you think to solve.”

Loki glanced up at that, his eyebrows raised. “Is that a challenge?” He asked, smiling.

Káta grinned, laughing slightly. “Maybe. Here,” she passed him a small leather pouch to pour the pieces into, then sprang off to another part of the room, this time returning with a simply carved flat box with a sliding lid.

She set it down on the furs between them, and slid out the lid, revealing a pair of brass brooches; one depicting Yggdrasil, and the other an apple tree.

“These were my mother’s,” she ran one finger around the raised up patterns of a brooch, the tip tracing along the lines. “She gave them to me decades ago; said they were my heirlooms to keep. I was only little, so I didn’t really understand much at the time; but now they’re very precious to me.”

Loki took one out, examining the craftsmanship. It was finely made, and extremely old, for he did not recognise the workmanship. “You should wear them,” he said absently, holding it against the shoulder of Káta’s dress. She laughed slightly.

“I’ve no cause to; I’m not a goddess. I don’t wear a cloak.” Loki’s brows quirked at that, an idle thought rising in his mind, and he shelved the conversation, returning the brooch to its place. Káta slid the lid back over them, and brought over the next item.

They went through every one of her possessions that was special in some way. The circular hair comb and case had been hers since she was a baby. The hair pieces were either made by the dryads or gifts that her mother brought back from Asgard. The finely decorated needle was more work of the dryads. The river smoothed stones had been taken from the stream that ran through the orchards, and the basket that held them, woven by the dryads.

Eventually, there was nothing left to see, and Káta sat, carefully packing away a tiny horn made from a shell. “Do you have anything special from your childhood?” She asked absently as she tucked the fabric around the shell, gazing up at him when she finished, halting at the expression in his eyes.

Loki had stiffened a little at the question, and now his countenance had become deeply considering. He gazed into her eyes for a few long moments, then seriously took her hands in one of his, his long fingers easily wrapping around both her wrists as he lifted them up. His other hand came up, closed and holding something, and rested in her cupped palms for a moment. Then, his fingers unfolded, and something cold and metallic slid into Káta’s hands, its surface only faintly warmed by the time it had spent in Loki’s hand.

As his hand shifted away it revealed a small metal figurine resting across her palms. It was a pair of entwined serpents, each biting their own tails, one with emeralds for eyes, the other with fire diamonds. A glance told her that it was old and well loved, the engraved pattern slightly worn away from a lifetime of use. The craftsmanship was not that of a master, but it was far from shoddy and showed promise.

Káta shifted her hands slightly to get a better view of the piece, and gasped when the serpents shifted in a slithering clinking of metal. Loki grinned as her surprised eyes darted up to his, and then back down to regard the snakes with awe. Closer inspection revealed them to be made of dozens of tiny linked sections which allowed them to slink over surfaces when touched as their living counterparts would.

“Is there a story?” Káta asked curiously, tilting her hands so the snakes shifted from palm to palm like swiftly moving rivers of quicksilver.

Loki, who had been watching the progression of the snakes back and forth, apparently as mesmerised by their movement as Káta, absently began to speak, his eyes suddenly shifting from fascination to dull recollection. “I used to sneak out of the palace when I was a child; I wanted to see more of the city – not just Valhalla. Once I had figured out how to manage it I used to slip away whenever I could and go roam the city. People didn’t know me; I was just a well-dressed child wandering the streets – it was a blessing to be ignored.” Káta’s eyes, which had shifted to Loki’s face when he began the story, became tinged with sadness. Loki seemed to have sunk into the memory, his eyes focused on something beyond the room. “One day I ran into another boy, Auðun; the son of a blacksmith. We were of an age, and I had a book with me. He was interested, so I showed him, and then somehow we became friends. We met up whenever I snuck out, and I’d bring books for him to read sometimes. I told him I was the son of a demigod so he wouldn’t desert me.” Káta’s eyes crinkled sadly, but Loki did not notice. “His family were very kind to me.

“I ate with them a few times, and sometimes we’d watch his father work in the forge. We came up with all these ideas and designs of things to make,” Loki smiled slightly at the memory. He laughed softly. “His father said they were too fantastical, but Auðun said that one day he would become a renowned blacksmith and make them all. We designed the snakes together.” Loki paused, frowning deeply. “Then one day when we were in the forge some gods came by to inspect a piece they had commissioned from his father. They recognised me and dragged me back to the palace.

“I thought that Auðun and his family might get in trouble with my father, and so did they, so I told the gods that they hadn’t known who I was. Auðun’s father apologised, and they said no harm would come to them over the matter, and that it wasn’t their fault, and that I was a tricky child.” He heaved in a deep breath. “Father told me off, and mother too – he thought that I had been using the seiðr that she had begun teaching me to escape.” He snorted at the thought. “I was confined to my rooms for a month. But I managed to sneak out – I had to explain to Auðun if I could.

“I went to the fountain we had always met at, and he was waiting for me. I had been worried that he might not have been there…that he might not have wanted to know me anymore after finding out who I was.” Loki’s voice was a little raw. “I tried to explain, but he said that he understood and gave me a package. Apparently he had been making the snakes in secret as a surprise.” Loki paused for a long moment. “We parted friends…but we never saw each other again after that.”

Silence stretched between them after Loki ended his tale until Káta reached over, taking Loki’s hand and carefully sliding the snakes into it. “Did you ever try to find Auðun when you were older?” She asked gently.

Loki’s mouth tightened, and his hands tensed in his lap. “He died in an accident decades ago.”

Káta let out a little breath, and then reached over, placing her hands over his tightly knotted ones.

Loki’s eyes had been fixed very firmly on the stone in the wall in front of him as he told the story, but now he looked sideways into Káta’s eyes, expecting to see pity in them. Instead, there was sad compassion.

Beneath hers, his hands loosened very slightly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this time we get to see some of Káta's vulnerability, and, importantly, a bit more of Loki's softer side. :3  
> I hope Káta doesn't come across as weak. Just terribly homesick without really realising it until now.
> 
> As regards the candle that Káta lights to Freyja, I did a bit of research, and found that generally human worshippers would have made a blood sacrifice to Freyja, such as sprinkling the blood of an ox on a stone altar. As that seemed a little bit graphic given the location and the story and the events of this chapter, I refined it a little;  
> "blóð" translates as blood, "húsl" as sacrifice  
> thus the candle Káta lights is a blood sacrifice candle.  
> A "hörgr" is an altar of stones that the blood would be poured over.
> 
> Auðun is another OC. His name means "wealth, riches, abundance; happiness, luck" and "friend".
> 
> Please do comment :) Tell me what you like or don’t like :)  
> Also, if you like this story, or any of my other ones, and you want access to sneak previews on chapters that I'm working on, Like my Facebook page, or Follow my Twitter :)  
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	18. The Night Watch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki takes some rather drastic measures, and their effects are far from ignored by Káta.

It had been strange for Loki, sharing the serpents Auðun had given him with Káta. None of his family had ever been told about their friendship; Odin had not wished to hear Loki’s explanations at the time, deeming them to be excuses and lies, more intent on discovering how Loki had managed to escape the palace. Káta was the first person to see the snakes in all the decades that he had had them. It had made him feel uncomfortably vulnerable at the time, and even now it felt like he had walked into battle without any armour on. Her reaction had allayed decades of compiled fears about the sharing of his most personal feelings and possessions however, but only in regard to her, and unprotected as he now felt, he was inexplicably warm inside, like he had been filled with fresh honey.

They had spent the rest of the day up on the roof. A nymph had come to knock on Káta’s door for something, interrupting them, though neither had wished to be disturbed. Káta had given Loki an apologetic and vaguely pouting glance as she stood to answer the door, when he had taken her hands in his, startling her slightly, but silencing her with a wink, and disappeared them both to the roof. They had lain across the wooden tiles, their heads hanging over the edge and listening as the nymph came in, restraining their giggles at her frustration, before rolling over to sit upright when she had departed to let their laughter ring out across the tiles.

Káta appeared to be quite familiar with the layout of the roof, and led Loki along the various ridges to a little half semicircle where several beams protruded, making a large enough flat area for them to sit on. The drop was more the dizzying, and they had sat talking, Káta with her legs swinging freely over the edge in the carefree childlike manner that she had, as Loki watched in faint bemusement, more rigidly sitting cross-legged.

When time for the midday meal had come around, Loki had summoned various platters from Valhalla’s kitchens to Káta’s delighted surprise, and they had picnicked there, Káta scattering crumbs and small morsels nearby for a number of birds that eagerly flew up to join their private feast.

Everything had been quite innocent and amiable until the nymphs had begun to spill out onto the lawns with the various gods keeping their company for the day. Then Káta had conceived of the idea of using their grape and apple pips as ammunition to spit and throw down at them. Taken with the idea, although faintly surprised at its insolence, Loki had summoned a spyglass from his rooms, and they had spent a good hour raining the pips down on the bewildered nymphs and gods, laughing like children at the confused cries of outrage that floated up to them.

Loki glanced up from the snakes were they lay in his hand rippling in the moonlight, to where Káta lay in her golden haze, sleeping. Since the events of the previous night, he did not feel safe leaving Káta for a moment longer than was necessary, and for all that the Nipt Þrír seemed to be keeping their distance from her, a glut of fears had risen in him, trebling the faint anxieties that he had been nursing before the incident to the extent that being out of Káta’s company for more than an hour made him twitchy and irritable. He had left her for the evening meal, surprised by the athleticism she had shown as she swung herself back in through her window after she had declined his offer of using seiðr, allowing her a faint bow of his head when she had glanced mischievously over her shoulder at him, grinning. Now, however, he would guard her against the dangers that the night might bring, eschewing his own sleep to watch over her until beyond dawn, when she woke.

He had not slept for two nights running now, but the anger that rose within him and contempt for his own weakness whenever he contemplated sleep served to keep him watchful. He had sworn to protect her, and he had already failed to do so by appearing late the other night, as good as surrendering her to the clutches of the Nipt Þrír; he would not run such a risk again. He could not.

 

The days passed. Each day Loki appeared soon after Káta had finished her breakfast and returned to her rooms, and they would spend the day as they pleased, with Loki departing in the evening. On days when Káta was otherwise engaged, Loki would follow her about her business, invisible, until she returned to her room, when he would reappear without an explanation of his uncanny timing. Each night Loki would return once Káta was abed, taking his place on her windowsill, and keep himself awake by whatever means possible until dawn’s light washed over him, and Káta began to stir. In those moments between her waking and his return after the morning meal, Loki would snatch an hour of sleep and eat just enough to sustain him through to the day until the midday meal. The same events ran in the evening when he left her for the evening meal, a stolen nap and a bite to eat, and then he would return for his night-time vigil.

Káta was not oblivious to her new companion’s declining condition. Each day he reappeared, just as jovial and mischievous and complicated as the last, but each time there was more weariness in his eyes, the faint blue smudges beneath them steadily darkening to deep bruised purple as his face hollowed, his skin sallowed, and his hair became lank and brittle. Káta did not mention it, however, unsure as to the cause, and wary of triggering one of the prince’s black moods. After six days, however, Káta could not keep her silence any longer.

They were lying on the lawns near a little coppice of trees, watching the clouds. It was a warm day with a slight breeze, and in the shifting shade beneath the trees Loki’s eyes had begun to droop, his responses devolving down into assenting hums.

Káta glanced sideways at him, then rolled over onto her side, propped up on one elbow, gazing at his shadow dappled sleeping face. It was the most peaceful she had ever seen the prince look.

“Loki…” she began slowly.

“Hmm?” The prince’s brows lifted slightly with his drowsy reply.

“Are you getting enough sleep?” She asked tentatively. Loki’s brows knitted, his lips tightening slightly, and he cracked an eye open, turning his head to glance at her, his lips remaining pressed together. “You look ill, you know.” She said with blunt honesty, her brows raised expectantly.

Loki’s mouth became a severe line, and he turned away from her, his eyes now open and gazing up at the rustling canopy of leaves above them. “What do you suggest I do?” He asked.

Káta frowned slightly. “Um…sleep?” She suggested. “I don’t profess to know much about gods, but you need sleep just as much as the rest of us.” Loki let out a puff of air that might have been a snort of amusement. “Have a nap now,” she insisted, an idea gathering in her mind, “give me a book, and I’ll read it to you, and you sleep.” She watched as his brows furrowed again, his expression becoming oddly serious as he turned to gaze sideways at her once more, an eyebrow raised. Káta fixed him with her best stern face, her own brows expectant.

Eventually, Loki rolled his eyes, and his hand came up, handing her a book that had not been there before, and he closed his eyes. Káta took the book with a grin, rolling over onto her front, and laying out the book before her on the grass, beginning to read.

Loki lay, listening more to the sound of Káta’s voice than the actual words she was speaking, wrapped up in his own thoughts. Káta had a point. Transporting himself between Valhalla and Mærsalr had been becoming more and more of a strain of late as his strength waned, and although his mind fiercely drove him onward, his body was beginning to fade. Thoughts and schemes idly circled his mind until at last he slept, his mind surrendering to the needs of his body, lulled by the gentle cadence of Káta’s voice.

 

By the time he returned that night, refreshed and more energised that he had been in days, Loki had a plan.

He took up his usual place on the windowsill, his eyes resting gently on Káta for a few moments as she slept, and then pulled out a small bundle from his pocket. He unwrapped it, laying it out on the stones between his legs, and picked through the mass of tangled threads and fabric it contained. Eventually he held six strips between the fingers of his left hand; a length of the gold stitched pale leaf green fabric that Káta favoured, a length of the darker green of his own colours that he had savaged a tunic for, a strip of black leather that he had ruined another piece of his clothing for, an earthy brown ribbon that Káta often used in her hair, a string of tiny amber beads, and a sinuous finely linked chain of gold that rippled when touched. In his right he held three silvery chains that looked as though they were made of smoke or quicksilver, for they were as insubstantial as mist and constantly rippled in a breeze of their own.

Carefully, he gathered all the pieces together, arranging them in the order that best pleased his eye, before pinching them together, pressing hard, seiðr binding them together in a shield knot when he released them. Then he began the arduous process of plaiting the nine strands together.

It was a slow process, infinitely fiddly, even with the help of his magic to hold all the threads that he lacked the extra hands to hold, and Loki did not want to rush the work; it had to have a perfect finish. As he slowly made his way through the threads, the odd smoky cords that he had included began to change as they were woven in, gathering the seiðr he was pouring into them and shrinking into slender silky cords that were bright white and encased in a fine golden knotwork pattern of repeating runes and paired uroboros serpents encased in scrolls and leafwork.

As the night wore on his posture became crabbed, his head bent and shoulders hunched over his work, utterly absorbed in the task. His muscles ached, cramped, and sweat began to bead on his skin. There were times when his eyes went blank on him, and the tiny output of magic that he was using to hold the threads in place sudden felt like he was trying to keep seven mountains in the air, causing them to tremble. But he fought on through it, pouring his every scrap of energy into the three greedy smoky ribbons, forming them from the ephemeral into tiny indestructible cages of seiðr that pulsed with power.

By dawn he had managed to plait a length equivalent to that of two joints of his little finger. His entire body felt like he had spent the night fighting tireless opponents, and he knew he did not have it in him to transport himself back to Valhalla, let alone return. Wearily, he sealed the plait where he had stopped, pocketing it, before taking the now excruciating climb up onto the roof. Once there, he draped himself over the roof ridge, unable to muster the energy to move any further, and fell into grateful sleep to the sound of Káta stirring below.

 

Káta returned from breakfast and sat down at her desk. Her tapestry design had been woefully neglected in all the time she had spent with Loki, for even on the days when they remained in her room and she began to sketch in more patterns, she inevitably found herself drawn away from her work and into the conversation with the charming trickster god.

Today, Loki had not appeared as promptly as was his usual wont, but she was not particularly surprised by that. She had every suspicion that he had decided to go back to surprising her with the unpredictability of his timing, and a large part of her hoped that he had slept in. Even after his nap yesterday on the lawns, when she had read until her throat was dry, and he had slept for a good five hours, she was not entirely happy about his condition.

She rattled around her pots of charcoal sticks concernedly, frowning as she tried to find a cloth to wipe her hands on. It was deeply concerning.

A faint knocking from the roof interrupted her thoughts and search.

Káta glanced up, confused, her head on one side as she listened. “Hello?” She called. The knocking repeated, this time a little weaker.

Curious, she crossed to the window, tucking her skirts up into the waist of her smallclothes and climbing out onto the huge corner post of the building, using the knotwork carving as handholds and footholds. When she eventually pulled her head up over the overhang of the eaves, her eyes widened as they fell upon Loki lying draped in a thoroughly uncomfortable looking manner, his stomach resting over the ridge of the roof.

She let out a little gasp, and pulled herself the rest of the way up, rushing as quickly as she dared over the roof towards him, and crouching by his side.

“Loki! What in the Nine Worlds happened to you?” She cried, helping him haul himself into a sitting position opposite her atop the ridge. His face looked like he had aged several decades. Káta’s mind drifted to the chests beneath her bed and their hidden bounty of the golden apples, wondering whether it was possible to give Loki a bite of one. He looked so _tired_ ; a bone deep weariness that made her anxious.

Loki let out a dry laugh, falling forwards before he was caught by Káta’s quick hands on his shoulders, pushing him back upright and holding him steady. What _had_ happened to him? How was it that he had come to this point, where he was wearing himself out to the last ravelling just to protect a girl? He glanced up into Káta’s sweet face, so dear to him now, wondering, taking in her concerned expression as she continued to hold him upright. And he knew that the answer was sitting before him, her eyes anxiously watching him, waiting patiently for his answer. “Nothing,” he murmured, his eyes half closing.

Káta made to disagree, her face already forming her characteristic expression of a frowning pout, when Loki glanced up, his eyes very childlike for once.

“Will you read to me?” He asked. Káta let out a deep sigh, her expression transforming into a soft smile, although a concerned crease remained between her brows.

“If you can make it to the ledge,” she replied, “yes; I will.”

It took a bit of help to get Loki over to the half semicircle, and by the time Káta had scampered back over the ridges to her room, retrieved a book, and come back, he was already half asleep, slumped in the corner and propped up by the sloping roofs to each side.

Káta smiled gently, settling down, and began to read.

 

That evening, Káta made sure to extract a promise from Loki that he would not return the following day, and that instead he would stay in his rooms and sleep. She was not sure why it was so difficult for him to promise to do so, after all, they had spent days apart before, and it took a good deal of cajoling and several promises on her part before he grudgingly agreed to do so before disappearing.

That night, Loki returned and continued the plait. He was still weary from the previous night, but a whole day’s rest in Káta’s company had done him greater good than anything else. Silently he worked on it, emptying, not only his seiðr into it, but unwittingly pouring out his heart and soul.

When dawn came he was even worse than he had been yesterday, but eventually he managed to transport himself back to his bed, falling back into his pillows and sleeping.

 

A handmaiden came in several hours later, and when her attempts to wake him came to nought, she rushed to his mother. Frigg returned with Eir and Bragi in tow, and the three of them had gazed down at the sleeping prince in dismay.

He was almost as haggard as he had been the last time they had met to discuss him, although his body had not wasted this time. Eir reassured her queen that the prince was not affected by anything, but merely that his body was in a very deep healing sleep that they should not disturb. The wounds in his soul were also feeling cleaner and less tainted, although they remained as deep as they had ever been.

As they left, Eir continued to reassure the Queen. “It is a good sign, my lady. His body is healing itself. Sleep is often the most effective remedy in these cases.”

“But why has he declined again?” Frigg’s eyes remained anxious.

“With troubles such as Loki appeared to bear, it is not to be wondered at that he might have suffered a relapse,” Bragi interjected lowly. “It is nothing to trouble your heart with, my lady.” Frigg nodded.

“And what of the girl? This nymph?” She asked as they exited, moving down a corridor back to Fensalir.

“She has certainly prevented him from brooding,” replied Bragi, who had been tasked with keeping the occasional eye on the prince and his new companion. “The prince appears transported to his younger days. She makes him laugh a good deal, and he her, and they often play japes on the nymphs together; she appears to be a fit companion for him.” Frigg nodded again, the gesture gentle as she thought.

“Good… I think we can leave them be without further watching then; my thanks, Bragi.” Bragi inclined his head slightly.

“My Queen.”

 

Loki slept as one spell bound for the rest of the day, not even rising for the midday meal, but sleeping through all. It was not until nightfall that he rose his mind and body rejuvenated beyond all that he had felt for the past week, and he made his return to Káta’s room for his night’s work and guarding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand have another chapter! :D Warning, I don't know how long I can keep this plentiful flow up for, so sooner or later (probably sooner) I'm gonna hit a wall, and there'll be a hiatus. No getting around that fact, but I shall do my best to deliver until then! :D
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoyed it! :D  
> Please do comment :) Tell me what you like or don’t like :)  
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	19. Gifting His Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki at lasts gifts his bracelet, but finds out there are some unintended side-effects.

It took Loki a further three days before the plait was completed, and could be fashioned into a bracelet. Bound by his promise to Káta he had returned to his own rooms with the dawn, sleeping until night shrouded the city once more, and then waking to return to her room and his work. His absence from her during the day bothered him greatly, but he had made her promise to always be in the company of others – a demand she had bemusedly acquiesced to. Now, however, such oaths would no longer be necessary. He had bound the bracelet with enough magic that at times it felt as though it were a part of him to the extent that he always knew its location, and now all that remained was to give it to her. Wearing the bracelet, Loki could be sure that he would always be able to find Káta, and have a dim sense of her emotions. It was a better measure than never sleeping again and spending his nights in anxious patrol about her person, provided she wore it.

He ate a morning meal for the first time in four days, summoning the food to his room, before disappearing off to hers with a pleased flourish.

 

Káta’s room was empty when he appeared it in. Unconcerned, Loki crossed to her desk. A colourful blot of glass that had evidently gone awry at the blowers sat atop a small note. That had been his other condition; not knowing how long the bracelet would take to create, he had made Káta promise to leave a note if she was not going to be in her room in the event that he returned while she was out.

 

_Gone for a swim, you worry wart._

_~ Káta_

 

Loki smiled faintly at her message, instantly knowing that she would not be in the hot springs below the hall or in any of the lakes, but at her well. That was one piece of information she had not yet shared with him, and he had not shared his knowledge of its existence either.

Cloaking himself in a net of invisibility, Loki disappeared.

 

*

 

Káta had not been to her well in a long time; not since Róta had ruined her book. Her time had been willingly taken up with Loki, but now that she had forced him to sleep during the day, as it appeared that nights alone were insufficient, she was finding it a little odd but enjoyable to have so much time to herself once more. A great many things she had been neglecting could now be attended to, although it felt a little strange to be without Loki’s presence constantly at her side. She had not understood his anxiety to leave her until he had muttered something about Spana and her sisters, and her gentle ridicule of his inexplicable stubbornness had faded. It was sweet of him to think of her safety, and she had willingly pledged to do as he asked, if only to assuage the concern in his eyes.

She was nearly halfway to the well, and her buckskin mare seemed to be enjoying getting out of the city just as much as she was, for she was gamely galloping across the Plain of Ida with the occasional whinny of delight. Káta laughed at her horse’s enjoyment, and closed her eyes for a moment, her face upturned with a carefree smile as the wind danced with her unbound hair. It was good to be out in the wilderness again.

As the mare’s hooves continued to leave a faint trail of rising dust in her wake, Káta’s mind drifted back to Loki, as it so often did of late. In the time they had been spending together she had learnt a good deal about the troubled prince. His reaction to the Tale of Finnr and Ljúfa had been exceedingly revealing, not only in the way that he regarded love, but also as a reflection of the relationship be had with his father and brother. She was beginning to see what an odd complicated tangle that it was; Loki’s jealousy regarding Thor, his evident hero-worship of his father which was at such odds with the way Odin appeared to treat him. Káta knew that there was still much to uncover there.

Her initial talk with Fróði had given her forewarning of the uneasy relationship that existed between Loki and his family, but she had not been ready for his wholesale rejection of love. Nor for his definition of it as a construct that facilitated suffering. His feelings regarding the emotion were deeply illuminating in regard to what she had seen in his eyes the first day they met, however.

The time they spent together also deepened her understanding of his manner and tendencies, for whenever Loki was seen and recognised by others in the grounds of Mærsalr, Æsir and nymphs alike shrunk from his presence – the nymphs with fear, and the Æsir with inexplicable disgust.

Before their acquaintance, Káta had been aware of the Loki’s reputation – she herself had fallen prey to the prejudices that it ascribed after his reaction to her revelations in the library – but she had never thought it to be so pervasive. She had at least expected people to attempt to hide their emotions and act with some small amount of decency, if only because he was a Prince; but none did. The Æsir in particular had more venom in their glances than was appropriate for individuals wronged by mere trickery, mischief, or lies, and Káta had spent many meals puzzling over what it might be that could elicit such overt loathing. She could not ask Loki outright, she didn’t want to endanger the tentative trust she was building with him by bringing up what was evidently bad blood.

To begin with she had always watched Loki for his reaction, but each time he ignored them as though they did not even exist, his posture as rigidly upright as ever, his carriage regal. There were times when his jaw tightened and the muscles in his cheeks flickered, however, and the second time it had happened Káta had been on the verge of unleashing a torrent of scolding invective on the offending god, but Loki’s tight expression had halted her. It was not his way to confront the matter in such a way. Eventually, she could not bear to see his stoic indifference any more, and simply did as he did, and tried her best to ignore it, attempting to put the matter from both their minds by distracting him.

What pained her most was that Loki was nothing like what people said him to be. She could not deny that he delighted in trickery and had a wicked inclination to mischievousness, and she had seen that he was a liar when it suited him, but that was what he was God of. Expecting Loki to quell his roguishness and not to play tricks and to always be truthful was like expecting the sun not to shine; it was his nature. There were times when his trickery could get out of hand, she knew from his anecdotes, for a good deal of his tricks directed at Thor and certain other gods and goddesses often overstepped the mark of playful trickery and soared far into outright chaos which he relished with an air of retribution. It was not something she condoned, but it was something she felt she could not judge, for there was a good deal that motivated the cruelty in such tricks that went beyond mere dislike and into what she thought was resentful loneliness and bitter jealousy.

That she knew to be certain. He was the loneliest god she had ever met. Always surrounded, but always cut off. Although she had grown up in relative seclusion, she had been surrounded by the loving care of the dryads and her mother. They were always there for her if she was hurt or sick or troubled or couldn’t sleep or had questions. From what she could gather of growing up and living in Valhalla, however, Loki was always in the company of others, but he had no connection with any of them. He had no one in the palace that he could rely on. It was just himself.

His tricks he had shared with her, but he had remained intensely private about his family life, and she did not know whether that was because of his natural reticence, or if it was because there was nothing to share. She had figured out the way that he viewed his father with Fróði’s help, and his confused love-hate relationship with his brother was obvious to see. Only his mother seemed to offer him unconditional affection, and even there she could feel a slight barrier, raised up from past wrongs.

 Beyond that, she did not know whether there were any other than herself and Fróði who had ever cared for him. As far as she knew she and the dead Auðun had been his only friends. Thor she assumed to care for him in the faintly detached manly way that many of the gods displayed, going by what she had seen in the library; masculine affection that was brisk and uproarious, and most often conducted over a tankard of mead. But Loki was proud, too. His stiff hauteur was as good a way as any of sending away unwanted interest.

For all his troubles, however, Loki was exceedingly charming in a rakish sort of way, and when he chose to be was so charismatic as to be disarming. His mischief, when it was not retributive, was largely playful – Káta had lost count of the number of times she had had to engage in a hunt for various items in her room on account of Loki’s habit of shifting things around. He could be fickle at times, but had a provocative wit fuelled by an immense and intensely curious intellect that she liked to bait and draw out. She was fairly sure that Loki was aware of her intentions to banter with him when she did, but he appeared to enjoy the occasional duel between their wits as much as she did.

Káta drew up the mare as they neared the forested foothills of the Asgard Mountains, slowing to a trot and then down to a walk as they entered the shades of the forest. She guided the foot sure creature along unseen paths over patchy carpets of fallen leaves and twisted roots towards her well and clearing.

She had debated bringing Loki out to see her well, for she had all but told him who she was, and she knew him to be both intelligent and curious enough to have figured out who she was by now. Something held her back, however. It was not that she didn’t trust him, she trusted him implicitly – if she hadn’t then she very much doubted that he would have ever let her get to know him as she did. She wasn’t sure why, but it simply did not feel like it was the right time to bring him there. Not yet.

Tethering the mare in a grassy spot, Káta whirled out into her clearing, her skirt flaring as she spun. Being with Loki helped her to forget the oppression of being in the city, but it was nothing to being out and free in the wild spaces that nature shaped. Her longing to escape the clutter of the city had been doubled by the incident with the Nipt Þrír, and now, as Káta sank happily to her knees in the long grass, the wildflowers all turning as though to gaze at her, she at last felt at peace.

She laughed, rolling across the grass and breathing in the warm scent of the earth and the sharp greenness of the grass and trees, before stopping, flat out on her back and gazing up at the clouds scudding across the sky.

Eventually she sat up, pulling off her dress so she was only clothed in the light shift she wore beneath, crossing to her well and draping the garment over the low hanging branch of a tree that had often served such a purpose.

The water was deliciously cool as it pooled about her ankles, steadily rising up her body, the fabric of her shift billowing on the surface as she walked in deeper, gliding over to rest on the projection of earth below her apple tree. She gazed up at the golden apple above her, and hummed softly to it, her eyes shut for a moment. When she reopened them, her gaze settled on the iridescent feather of the little green bird that had appeared last time. She had never seen a bird like it in her mother’s orchards.

Hopefully, she glanced about, her sharp eyes searching the shifting foliage of the trees above her. “Smár fugl?” She called gently, humming a little of the tune that she had sung to it last time.

 

From his place where he sat, invisible and leaning against the trunk of one of the trees that circled the well, Loki tilted his head slightly, and idea percolating through his mind. He stood, walking a little way into the thicket, before transforming into his bird form and flying out into the well’s clearing. Káta’s face lit up in a delighted smile at his appearance, and she raised a hand for him to land on.

 

The bird, after landing on her hand, let out a twittering flurry of sound, its gleaming breast swelling, and seemed so pleased with itself that Káta could not help but laugh. It flirted its tail, gazing up at her with its head on one side, and hopped along her finger a little, as though not quite able to contain its excitement or pleasure. Káta laughed again. “Careful, smár fugl,” she cautioned, “you don’t want to fall off.”

The bird wittered something in reply, bobbing its head slightly, before letting out a further burst of elated song that was almost deafening, and drew forth another amused giggle from Káta.

“You seem very pleased with yourself about something,” Káta said, which responded with a series of shrill warbling, briefly taking off from her hand and executing a small circle, before fluttering back to her once more and continuing its piping explanation. Káta smiled, amused. “You are a funny little thing,” she said, floating backwards, and beginning to spin in slow circles, humming softly, dancing.

The bird did not take fright, but blinked its bright dark eyes, its head tilted to one side as it swayed slightly at her movement.

 

Later, when they moved out to the grass of the meadow, the bird, which had decided it was content sitting on her shoulder wittering softly into her ear, darted about, amusing Káta with aerial acrobatics, and returning every now and then with a flower plucked from the meadow.

Káta gathered the bird’s offerings together, and when a small pile had amassed it returned to her, fluttering up and down, hopping around the pile before choosing the flower that it wanted, and then flying up to tuck it into her hair. When all the flowers were gone, and her hair had been turned into a silky mane of petals, the bird settled on her shoulder once more, its beak tickling her as it groomed her nearby strands of hair.

Soon, however, it was time for her to be returning to the city.

“I have to go now, smár fugl.” Káta said softly, reaching up a hand for the bird to hop onto, and holding it before her face. “I’ll see you another time.” She smiled, and the bird chirruped a reply, hopping slightly before darting away into the trees.

 

Káta closed the door of her room behind her, and crossed to her desk. The note she had left for Loki remained where she had put it, untouched, and she sighed a little as she folded it away. She did not know what it was that had troubled Loki, nor how long it would take for him to recover, but his prolonged absence was starting to give her cause for concern, and besides that, she missed him.

Her thoughts were interrupted however by a spiralling chirruping, and the little green bird flew in through her window. She glanced up in time to see it enter with something circular carried in its beak. It coasted around her room twice, and then fluttered down before her on the desk, carefully laying down its burden.

“What’s this, smár fugl?” She asked, coming forwards and sitting down before the bird.

Between them lay a bracelet. Quite apart from anything else, it was a beautiful piece of craftsmanship; a perfectly executed nine stranded plait. Káta knew from experience how difficult it could be to do a five way plait, and she did not want to think how difficult this had been to create. The threads used were uncommon as well; leather and embroidered fabric, a slinking chain of gold links and a series of tiny amber beads, a ribbon and three lengths of something that felt like satin cord but were unlike any material she had ever seen and covered in tiny golden runes. The colours were attractive; green, black, gold, brown, and white.

“Who made this, smár fugl?” She asked absently. The bird blinked, and flirted its tail, but did no more. Káta’s gaze returned to the intricate braid, and she put out a hand to touch it.

 

Loki felt as though something had reached deep inside him, down into the very heart of his being, and touched his soul with the gentlest of caresses. Warmth flooded his body, and he felt as though he had been bulled into sideways by half an army on horseback.

He was not aware of keeling over, nor of his bird form flickering for the merest moment. Then he heard a gasp of shock, and the warm sensation disappeared, leaving him feeling much colder, although his mind was infinitely clearer.

 

Káta’s eyes widened with dismay as she gazed down at the little bird, gently running her finger down the edge of one of its wings as its eyelids flickered.

“Oh, smár fugl, how do I keep doing this to you?” She asked sadly. It let out a faint wobbly sound, as though to reassure her. Káta’ sighed.

Carefully, she gathered the fragile creature in her hands, and carried it with her, cupped protectively against her chest, as she moved around her room, pulling out a soft scarf from one of her chests, and taking a bowl from her shelves, assembling a makeshift nest from them.

By then, the bird was looking considerably more alert, although still decidedly dazed, and she settled it down carefully. “Sleep, smár fugl,” she murmured, and began to sing softly.

It was not long before the bird’s eyes were almost shut, very occasionally fluttering open every now and then as it dozed, its feathers fluffed up. Then the horn for the evening meal sounded far below, and Káta stood, stooping over the sleeping bird, and stroking its head gently with the tip of one finger.

“I’ll be back soon,” she whispered.

 

On her return, however, Káta found that the bird had gone.

 

*

 

Loki returned to his rooms the moment he woke in Káta’s, and fell into bed, sleeping before his head touched the pillow. His mind was swirling with questions about what had happened, but the seiðr in the song Káta had sung to him was still in effect, though he was no longer a bird.

By the time it had worn off, he was deeply asleep of his own accord.

 

*

 

Káta could not sleep. She had dozed lightly to begin with, but now lay restless, her mind worrying at the conundrum that Loki presented. After an interminable time she shook her head, and got up to fetch herself a drink from the pitcher on her desk. She was going in circles, thinking about speculations rather than things she knew to be true, and no amount of fretting would be of help.

She spotted the bracelet that the bird had brought, the gold and amber glimmering in a puddle of silver moonlight, and paused, mesmerised by its beauty. Carefully she picked it up, taking it back with her as she lay down, and examining it as she ran her fingers over the beautifully woven strands.

 

*

 

Loki woke in a manner he had never experienced before. The sensation he had experienced in Káta’s room when she had first touched the braid had returned, washing over him in a warm, enveloping wave; but that was not what had woken him. A far greater feeling overrode that, and it felt as though warm, kind hands had reached into him, bringing golden light with them and finding the very core of his inner being, that place that he had always fought to protect, and were now holding that part of him that was all that he was and could ever be, his very essence, cradled in the gentlest of touches, and protected by an indestructible something that he could not name.

He shuddered as the gentle touch of tracing phantom fingertips moved over his skin, and over that vulnerability now protected inside him, nearly delirious with the pleasure it sent through him, his heart hectically beating in his chest as though a mad, glorious drummer was pounding out the very rhythm and beat of joy on it.

It went on and on until Loki thought that he might live his life fevered and held in the endlessly rippling sensation of it. Then it abruptly stopped. Loki’s breath caught as his rigid body at last relaxed, and he thumped back into his bed, panting, his eyes wide, suddenly feeling exceedingly hollow. He yearned for the return of the feeling to fill the empty nothingness that life now seemed to be.

It did not return. Instead, there was a gliding sensation across his skin and inside his heart, and when he closed his eyes and thought of Káta he could feel that part of himself that he had left in the bracelet wrapped around her wrist, pressing lightly against her soft skin.

Loki felt none of the ecstasy that he had before, but instead there was a much deeper, soothing satisfaction. It set his heart at ease, although when Káta moved her arm and the bracelet shifted a new ripple of feeling washed over him, momentarily sending his mind reeling. He did not know if he would be able to sleep, either that night or ever again, but he would not have traded a lifetime of rest for what he now felt.

 

*

 

Káta snuggled into her pillows, lulled into a doze by the hypnotic movement of running her fingers over the patterns of the braid. She had slipped it onto her wrist, and now gazed at it with half closed eyes, content, before she drifted into sleep.

 

*

 

Loki had eventually managed to sleep. He had spent the greater part of the night growing accustomed to the constant feeling that was produced by Káta wearing the bracelet, until he was at last able to sleep once more, only to be woken by the occasional flurry of sensation when she shifted in her sleep, brushing against the bracelet.

When he woke for the morning meal for the first time in four days, the handmaid took fright and nearly dropped his food. Her surprise amused him, and he was sure that she was bound for his mother the moment she left his presence. He was glad to be rid of her, however, for for all that he had grown used to the feeling of Káta wearing the bracelet when she was asleep and largely stationary, he was not prepared for the effects it caused when she was awake and moving about.

A good deal of his breakfast fell from his fingers before it even came halfway close to his mouth as he was paralysed by the delicious sensations of the bracelet shifting against her skin, and he was sure that he had not stained his clothing with so much food since he had been an infant.

When he had thought it prudent to use seiðr to conduct his food to his mouth, a pomegranate had exploded, splattering everything with a fine freckling of its blood coloured juice, and grapes and ricocheted of the wall, the seiðr spasming out of control just as much as his hands had. Drinking had been no better, and by the time Loki left his chambers walls, floor, and ceiling were plentifully adorned with all manner of squashed and exploded food and puddled with liquids.

He passed a handmaiden on his way out, and grinned when her appalled cry of shock reached his ears.

Pleased that his mother appeared to have decided against summoning him, Loki made his way to a secluded garden within the palace. He knew that he could not see Káta, not until he had regained complete control over himself; others would take his odd inability to control his limbs as merely another peculiarity about him, but she would notice and know that something was not as it ought to be.

As he passed others in the corridors they whispered as they caught sight of him, eyes wide, and he caught traces of their conversations. The one word repeated by all was ‘illness’. He had to hand it to his mother. Doubtless she had put about a story that he had taken ill with sleeping sickness or some such malady to explain his sleeping during the daylight hours to the handmaids that tended his chambers, and handmaids being handmaids; they gossiped. He had little doubt that all of Valhalla now knew of his apparent illness, and his mother being the goddess that she was, would not have stifled the rumours if it aided her cause.

It was as another whispering group passed him, this time several minor gods and goddesses, that he staggered and fell sideways.

 

*

 

Káta hummed to herself as she idly fiddled with the bracelet. She had meant to continue working on her tapestry, but the colours of the bracelet had distracted her, the gold and amber catching the light from the window, until she eventually set down her tools, and rested with her head on her arm, following first one colour then another to see the patterns they made with the threads. She was tracing the dark green strand at the moment; first entwined with one of the rune patterned white cords, then the black leather, then the gold chain, then another of the white cords, before the leaf green, and the amber beads, then the brown ribbon, and the last rune cord.

She frowned slightly as she read the runes; _ástir, hjarta, sál, seiðr, finna, kenna_. The first three she understood the presence of; ‘love’, ‘heart’, and ‘soul’ – they were common words to engrave on gifts exchanged between lovers, she had noticed. But ‘magic’, ‘find’, and ‘feel’ made no sense to her.

She sighed. Even knowing why ástir, hjarta, and sál might be on the bracelet, they only muddied the waters further as far as figuring out who had made it was concerned, and she wondered, not for the last time, who it was that had made it.

 

*

 

Loki wrenched himself upright, and pushed away from the wall that he had fallen against to keep himself from collapsing to the floor. The group of gods and goddesses had all stopped, and were gazing at him stunned. He was filled with a bubbling rage that they had seen – it was private, not something to be shared – and his anger allowed him to put the all but overriding pleasure from the sensation to one side. Loki turned, glaring at them over his shoulder and spat out a curse before disappearing.

He was still being affected, however, and his fluctuating control over the seiðr took him off his intended course, for when he reappeared it was in the bathing room of some god or goddess’s halls. The feminine shriek from behind him told him the latter, and he disappeared once more, this time materialising in the midst of one of the sparring grounds. He ducked the slash of a surprised looking einherjar, and reappeared, thankfully, in the gardens he had been making for.

He collapsed over a nearby stone bench, and rolled slowly onto his back as control seeped back into his body and the distracting sensation of Káta’s touch faded. He could see that this was going to take a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SCREECH! Loki is officially in love! :D  
> He just...ahem...doesn't really know it yet. Even though he's given his heart to Káta. Ehehehe.  
> On that note, just a couple of things to straighten out (just to be on the safe side XP). Loki hasn't left any part of him in the bracelet, although I do refer to it as that in the story. It's semi-metaphorical that he's put his heart and soul into the bracelet. Basically, what happened was that the magic he was putting into it picked up on all his feelings for Káta and helped to bind those feelings into the bracelet, and because Loki isn't really aware that what he feels is love, I have to be cagey in how I refer to it when writing from his perspective XP  
> And now to backtrack in the story to little bird Loki. Basically, because he is in a bird form, and because the bird form has a "bird mind" of it's own, Loki is not so consciously in control of how he behaves, and the bird form sort of picks up on his strongest emotions (in this instance, his affection for Káta, and displays them much more readily than he would in his godly form). Part of it is also natural bird behaviour, and when he's a little bird Loki's behaviour is in part modelled on our lovebird who is the biggest little showoff you'll ever meet.  
> Oh, and; Loki's the loneliest god. FEELS *drags at face*
> 
>  
> 
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	20. Replaced

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chance to prove his worth to his father and Asgard is offered to Loki, but he must choose between it and Káta.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Feels. Lots of feels.  
> Good luck.

The time in which Káta had not seen Loki stretched out longer and longer. She had waited two weeks before letting her rising concerns truly take hold, and even when she had gone to see Fróði the old god’s words had not exactly comforted her. When Loki had visited him a few days earlier, he had seemed in much better spirits than the head librarian had seen him in for years, and Fróði had congratulated her on helping the prince. Káta had wanted to say that she had not done anything at all, that Loki was still far from healed, that she wanted to know why he didn’t come to see her any more, but she had kept her silence. Fróði had seemed so happy that Loki appeared well that she did not want to taint his joy while it lasted. He had never had any children, and she could tell that he looked on Loki as a father would his son. Nor did she feel she had any right to claim Loki’s time in the manner that she wished to. He was a God; a Prince of Asgard. What she was, she didn’t even know.

So, she returned to her life as it had been before Loki. The tapestry design seemed to have stalled, so she folded it away, tucking it deep into the shadows beneath her bed, and went back to the dull life of seeing gods, reading books, letting Rúna do her hair, trailing around the markets for fabric to have dresses made from. She missed how things had been with Loki around; laughter and tricks, an intellect and wit she could test her own against. Now, afterward that vivacity of spirit, life amongst the nymphs seemed a thousand times duller than it ever had been before.

There were times when she felt angry with the prince. She felt used. But then, that was how it always fell out when she offered her help to the people of Asgard; nymphs and gods alike, it seemed, they took her help when they needed it, and did not look back.

 

*

 

Frigg had gently scolded Loki for the mess he had made of his room, as well as for startling the goddess Rindr, whose bath he had disturbed, but appeared to be too pleased at his return to consciousness to truly tell him off.

The sensations that Loki felt from the bracelet had become something like an extra sense. He had his sight, taste, touch, smell and hearing, and he also had a constant hovering awareness of where Káta was. It had taken a while, but he had eventually grown accustomed to the hazy pleasure that it constantly sent through him, and it was only when she was feeling particularly strong versions of her emotions, such as deep seated happiness or excessive anger, that they would affect his own, drawing either a smile or a frown, and sometimes tempering his mood for the rest of the day.

Time passed, and the amount that she tended to fiddle with the bracelet dwindled. The main emotion Loki felt, when he concentrated on her, appeared to be a forlorn listlessness. He did not know the cause of her feelings, and much as he wished to find out, there were other things to contend with his time.

Many months ago, Odin had called for a small scouting party to be assembled to enter Svartálfaheimr, due to various suspicions about the possibility of an army being assembled by the dökkálfar. An uneasy peace subsisted between them and their fairer kin the ljósálfar of Álfheimr, and war between them would cause large disruptions amongst the other seven worlds.

Consulting the dvergar of Svartálfaheimr on the matter had proved to be pointless; they cared little for the matters of other races, and would not shed any light on it, regardless of whether they knew anything – their cause was only with stone and metal. The mission would require stealth and cunning, particularly if they were caught by the dökkálfar, who were known to be a race suspicious of outsiders. To this end, Loki had been assigned leader of the party on Fastaðr’s recommendation.

Loki had been preparing for it extensively with a fervour born of elated excitement. It was to be his first solo assignment; a chance to at last prove himself and his worth to Asgard, and most importantly, to his father. Every time he had been on a mission before it had been in the company of Thor, and as the brothers had aged, leadership had come naturally to the golden son of the Allfather. The warriors who made up the parties trusted him in a way that they had never trusted Loki. Thor was like them; he thought like them, he fought like them, he feasted and caroused like them and with them. Loki was not. The gods and goddesses did not trust his tricks or seiðr, and amongst the warriors of Asgard a deep seated suspicion was shared about Thor’s fair skinned and dark-haired brother. Rumours had circled Loki ever since he had come into being, and time had served only to erased the details and distort the tales, until the shadows cast by Loki grew longer and darker with each retelling.

It had been difficult to find warriors and gods willing to make up the party under Loki’s leadership, even with the word and presence of Fastaðr to reassure them. Eventually, however, a small group had been selected; hardened old einherjar and warriors who did not care about who led them, so long as they did not get them killed, and those Fastaðr had managed to convince.

Now, with the time drawing near, preparations were being undertaken, and Loki was not surprised to find himself summoned to his father’s silver second hall Valaskjálf to stand before him on his high throne Hlidskjalf.

“Father, you summoned me?” Loki said as he rose from his knees.

Odin appeared very far away atop the distant seat of the throne, and Loki had to tip his head far back to see him. He was magnificent to behold; all that a King should look like to Loki’s eyes. When they had been children, Loki had devoted many hours of his time, planning just how he would rule when it became his turn to take the seat of Hlidskjalf and gaze out across the Nine Worlds.

Many a time, Odin had returned from a war or battle, and had sat, dandling Thor on his knee while Loki sat by his father’s feet, clutching the hem of his great cloak, and gazing up with awed eyes as Odin recounted great tales of the feats of bravery to be won on the battlefield. Their minds filled with such fantasies, the brothers would spend hours of their time waging battle through the halls and corridors of Valhalla, taking it in turns to wear the cloth eye patch that meant they were their vanquishing and victorious father.

Distant as Odin was, when he spoke his voice carried clearly through the chambers. “Yes. Your services shall not be required on the scouting party.”

Loki blinked in faint surprise, and smiled a little. “I am sure I misheard you, father; I thought you said –”

“You did not mishear me, Loki,” Odin cut across his younger son before he could finish.

Loki’s eyes widened slightly, and he gasped airlessly as though a knife had been slipped between his ribs. “But…but _why_?” He asked, at a loss to uncover the reason that he was being so summarily dismissed.

“It is poor conduct to question a King, Loki.” Odin said coldly, and the ravens Huginn and Muninn shuffled their feathers from their places on his shoulders.

Loki bowed his head. “Yes, father; forgive me. …may I at least know who is to replace me?”

“Thor shall take your place.”

“ _Thor?!_ ” Loki spat, all his previous humility evaporating as the word echoed. The hurt that had been spreading through his chest turned abruptly to poison. “They need to get into Svartálfaheimr without being noticed, not by attracting every dökkálfr’s attention on their way in!” He exclaimed. “Let me go, father. I promise you they will never know we were ever there! And if we are forced to treat with the dökkálfar I –”

“ _Silence!_ ” Odin had stood, and the boom of his spear Gungnir echoed through the hall like the sound of a mountain falling as its butt crashed against the ground, trembling the eaves and ringing in the vast empty spaces. “It is to me that men pray when they seek victory in battle; it is to me that men pray when they seek wisdom,” Odin declared as he gazed down at his silenced son. “To _me_ , Loki. Would you question my wisdom?”

Odin’s question rang in the silence that followed, and Loki gazed up at his father with hurt fury and the answer he clearly wished to speak in his eyes. Then he lowered his head. “No, father.”

Odin sat back on Hlidskjalf once more. “You are dismissed.”

 

Loki stalked through the corridors between the halls of gods and goddesses with hatred blazing in his wounded heart. Thor could not even let him have this one task to complete himself; he had to come in and steal the glory that had been so close to his grasp. There would never be a chance for him to prove his worth to their father, never. Never in a lifetime of striving would he ever be able to show what he could achieve.

He disappeared with a furious crack of his clothing to reappear in his rooms, startling the handmaidens that were tidying it.

“GET OUT!” He roared at them, spit flying from his lips as the sting in his chest surged into the pain of a thousand hornets jabbing relentlessly at him. “GET OUT! _LEAVE!_ ” They froze for a moment, then scrambled for the doors with squeals of fright as he took up a huge bowl of fruit from the nearest table and heaved it in their direction. It hit a pillar with a crash that hurt his ears, and lethal shards of pottery flew everywhere, but it did not stop Loki from going to the large table in the next room and sweeping all the quills and ink bottles and other implements off its surface with a wild wave of his arm, the bottles shattering and exploding as they struck the walls sending ink and chips of glass flying, tearing off the maps held down to its surface with daggers, taking up fistfuls of the notes he had written and read for the mission and burning them in furious outpourings of seiðr.

By the time he was finished he was kneeling in a scattering of broken glass, torn papers and ashes, ink dripping from the walls, and tears from his face.

It had all been going so well; things had finally begun to change. He had believed that his life was going to be better now. But it wasn’t. It would never be. Because he was Loki. The damned God of Mischief, Lies, and Trickery. The god everyone hated; the one who would never get a chance to prove his worth.

 

He was still kneeling there when Frigg entered, the anxious handmaiden that had brought her hanging back fearfully by the door. Everyone in the corridors beyond had heard his howling rage and the sounds of things being broken. Frigg waved at her to leave and the girl did all too willingly.

Frigg carefully picked her way through the dangerous slick of squashed fruit and broken bowl, and then over the shards of ink stained glass, to where her son sat crumpled on his knees beside the overturned table. His tears had dried by then, but she could see the marks they had left on his face, and the redness of his eyes. More worrying were the blood stains on his hands where he had beat them against the floor, and the sticky red smears across the smooth stone.

“Oh, Loki,” she murmured softly, kneeling beside him and gently taking the screwed up bits of paper from his hands, and carefully passing hers over his to heal the cuts and broken cartilage and bone, before drawing him sideways into her arms. “I know it meant a lot to you,” she said gently, “but there will be other times.”

Loki remained unresponsive in her arms, his expression cold. She didn’t know; it had meant _everything_ to him. And there would never be another time. That he knew for certain.

 

After his mother had left, Loki retreated to his bedchambers. He could hear the sound of the handmaidens setting the rooms beyond back to rights, but he did not care. Instead, he brooded, slumped behind his desk.

All the destructive anger that had burned through him before had been expended, and now his mind had turned inwards, circling and plotting over the matter, the voice that Káta had helped him keep at bay for so long beginning to whisper to him once more.

For all the pain that Loki was in, he did not welcome the return of the voice as he once had. It came to him, released by the tide of his frustration, and although a small part of him agreed with what it said, a much greater part inside his chest rebelled. He had brushed through the contents of his desk, searching for something to distract himself, when he had come across an unfamiliar pouch. He had opened it, and scores of tiny shaped rods of wood had tumbled out across. Káta’s puzzle.

He was in too poor a mood to think about visiting her, constricted by all that he contained, and the mountain of his old issues that she had temporarily kept at bay had now risen in such force that he could barely even feel anything from the bracelet.

Instead, he filled his time brooding on the matter of his brother and trying to ignore the voice as he mulled over the puzzle, each day growing more and more engrossed in it until thoughts of Thor were no longer in his mind, and the voice was a dull muffle. Meals remained a trial, however, for more often than not he would throw items at whichever handmaiden had the unfortunate task of delivering him his food, and it was not long before he began to use seiðr to enchant the food, splashing the soup in the poor girl’s faces or sending bread rolls flying at them to hurry them on their way out the door.

Under ordinary circumstances, Frigg would have put a stop to such behaviour, but she knew that Loki was in one of his black moods, and that he was perilously close to being tipped over the edge that his demi-goddess companion had managed to pull him back from. Instead she waited, and hoped.

 

On the day that he would have led the party out down the Bifröst to Heimdallr’s halls Himinbjörg, out where the bridge met the heavens – for groups of individuals had to be transported between worlds by the Watcher himself – Loki did none of his usual exhibitions. Instead, his food came and left untouched, as did the handmaidens, and he remained locked in silent combat with the puzzle, striving to find each of the ninety nine pieces’ places.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never liked Odin, so here we are, with Odin being bigoted and mean and not even attempting to be a good parent. And poor Loki trying to deal with it all.  
> I'll admit, I cried when I first wrote this chapter (which then comprised only of the Odin and Loki scene), and then I came back and added some more in when I was more composed.
> 
> 'dökkálfar' is the plural of 'dökkálfr', and means 'dark elves' - they live in Svartálfaheimr. There's actually dissent as to whether the dark elves are basically dwarves or not, because there's a third term (svartálfar, which means swart or black elves) which is basically synonymous with dökkálfar and the various words for dwarves, and is also used at times to refer to dwarves. For my purposes, I'm having the dökkálfar as my dark elves, and the dvergar as my dwarves; both live in Svartálfaheimr.  
> 'ljósálfar' is the plural of 'ljósálfr', and means 'light elves' - they live on Álfheimr
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it...as much as one can enjoy heart wrenching feels, that is.
> 
> Please do comment :) Tell me what you like or don’t like :)  
> Also, if you like this story, or any of my other ones, and you want access to sneak previews on chapters that I'm working on, Like my Facebook page, or Follow my Twitter :)  
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	21. Unwitting Discoveries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki returns to Káta, but not all is as he left it.

The day that Thor and the warriors returned was the day that Loki finished the puzzle. A handmaid came from his brother with an invitation to a great feast that night in celebration of the success of the mission, and the fact that the dökkálfar were not preparing for war.

Loki did not look at her, his eyes fixed intently on the completed cube as he set it down with great deliberation on his desk.

The girl hesitantly left when it became clear that he was not going to give an answer, and Loki remained in silence, his eyes now closed, resting his forehead against his clasped hands as he leant on his desk.

Without the puzzle to distract him, his mind returned to dwelling on his brother, and by nightfall his throat was thick with anger. The voice had been quelled, however. He sat in his chambers, palled in darkness, seething. It was not until his silence was interrupted by the slowly swelling tide of raucous voices and uproarious laughter that babbled through the night’s stillness like a brook through a forest, carried up from a nearby feasting hall that Loki at last stood. He walked out onto his balcony, frowning as the volume of the chatter increased, and leant out over the balustrade. Light spilled out from the rooms far below, and a faint skirling of pipes and fiddles began to mix with the sound of talking. Loki rolled his eyes, frowning.

All he asked for now was peace. A place away from reminders of Thor and his triumph. A place unmarked by his brother and father. A faint smile rose to his face, softening the hard lines of his disappointment and aggravation and he disappeared.

 

He had been meaning to visit Káta for weeks; ever since he had managed to regain control over himself, in fact. He had missed her company. But then the matter of the mission had arisen, and he had allowed himself to be detained by it, reassured by the fact that she now wore the bracelet, her safety guaranteed. Like a fool he had leapt for a chance at grasping what he had sought for so long without pausing to notice the inevitable pitfall below.

Loki pushed the thoughts away, the rankle of them leaving a metallic taste in his mouth, focusing instead of his warm memories of Káta as he reappeared in her room. He paused, casting about in the darkness which was lit only by the cold silvery light of the moon.

She wasn’t there.

His blood beginning to freeze, Loki crossed the distance to Káta’s desk on hurried footsteps, scanning it for a piece of paper that might bear a message from her. All he found were half-hearted sketches at various stages of completion, a slew of discarded books, and her usual various oddments.

In his rising panic, he cast about as memories and old fears rose to his mind regarding Spana and her sisters, his guilt rising with the recollection of the promises he had made to himself to keep Káta safe. How could he have done this _again_? Calming himself with great difficulty, he concentrated his thoughts on Káta, feeling for that part of himself that was in the bracelet. It was difficult, pushing through the barriers erected by his troubles, but eventually, he could feel her presence. The roof. He made to move, but was stilled.

A single tear fell unbidden from his eyes.

With her presence, he felt her sorrow. An overwhelming longing that was not his own filled his heart. A deep yearning ache for old times.

Concerned, Loki disappeared, rematerializing invisible atop the roof. Káta was not to be seen, but he followed the pull of the bracelet, walking lightly across the slopes and gullies of the roofs in a south-westerly direction, his face turned towards the tor of Valhalla.

Eventually, he clambered up the last slope, and across a gulf between two ridges, he saw Káta sitting atop a carving between the western and southernmost points of the halls, gazing out across the city in the direction of the Álfheimr Gate.

Her nightgown was only gathered folds of thin linen, and it streamed behind her in a slight breeze like the wings of a swan. She sat, perfectly still, a pale beautiful statue tinged blue by the moonlight, not seeming to feel the chill of the night’s air. The tightness that had been gathering in Loki’s chest loosened a little, but at the same time twisted him with a painful wrench.

Káta had not slept that night.

She had lain awake, her thoughts on home and her mother’s orchards, until a longing to return had filled her. Even the sound of the breeze stirring her wind chime could not help allay the feeling of homesickness, and she had clambered out onto the roof, walking across the wooden tiles of the roofs of Mærsalr until she had reached the place that brought her closest to home. There she had sat, gazing out across the glimmering city and beyond into the darkness that by daylight was that part of the Plain of Ida that was home to the portal through which she had travelled from Álfheimr when she first came to Asgard. Beyond the portal lay the lush lands of the ljósálfar realm, and in them the Enchanted Forest where her mother’s orchards lay.

Though she was by nature cheerful, Káta could not find it in her heart to rally her spirits just yet. She had known even before she had departed the orchards that she would miss her home as much as a mother would miss her babe, and although she had determined not to wallow in the feeling, she would not deny its existence. So it had become her habit to go out to where she was nearest to her home at night, when the hall was still, and most of Asgard slept, and sit in silent longing.

Come morning, she would put her yearning aside, and could be herself once more.

Káta sighed deeply as Loki moved carefully over the wooden slates of the roof until he was on a level with her. Her face was limned with silver and shadows by the moonlight, and filled with an expression of profound unhappiness. Silent tears slipped down her cheeks, though she took no notice of them, their trails gleaming like silver, the drops liquid diamonds that clung to her skin. The very glow of her seemed dimmer than usual.

Loki blinked. It was the first time he had seen Káta look truly sad. He had seen her upset and fearful after the incident with the Nipt Þrír, but any sorrow in her expression then had been a mere shadow of the grief she now displayed. This went deep.

He wanted to comfort her, to stop seeing such a heartfelt expression of sadness and loneliness on her face, but he didn’t know how, and even if he had, he didn’t even know the reason for her desolation.

A half-formed instinct made him lift his hand to brush the tears from her cheeks, but he faltered and fell back, unsure. He dithered for a moment, his mind drawing a blank on what to do. He wanted to let her know that she wasn’t alone, that she didn’t need to be, but he wasn’t sure whether she would welcome his intrusion on what was clearly a deeply private moment, especially when he had been absent for so long. He cast about, thinking desperately.

Káta’s solitude was broken by the burring of wings, and a faint questioning chirrup. She blinked, breaking her gaze towards home, and looked down by her side to where the little bird stood on the roof beside her.

The tiny creature gazed up at her, its head on one side, seeming to ask whether she was all right. A wan smile found its way to Káta’s face, and she leant down, brushing the tears from her cheeks, putting out a hand for the bird to hop onto, and bringing it up before her.

“Hello, smár fugl,” she said, her voice dry from her tears. “What are you doing here? You should be asleep.”

The bird flirted its tail, letting out a brief peep, its intelligent little eyes somehow concerned.

“You don’t need to worry about me,” she replied with a faint smile, “although it’s very sweet of you to.” The bird continued to gaze at her fixedly. “I’m fine, truly,” Káta said. “I’m just…” she took in a deep breath, “feeling homesick.” She looked up and gazed out towards the Álfheimr portal once more. “Sometimes I just need to miss home,” she said softly, her eyes still looking out into the darkness.

The bird cocked its head to one side as though it was trying very hard to understand. Then it peeped softly again, and fluttered over onto her shoulder, crawling under the fall of her hair, and burrowing its soft head against her neck for a moment.

Káta smiled. “I don’t suppose there’s anything you miss, smár fugl?” She asked softly.

The bird remained silent for a long moment, then chirred softly in an assenting sort of way. Then a long quiet stream of twittering was released, almost as though it was explaining a great burden.

Káta nodded, although she had not understood any of it. “We all have things we miss. Often we don’t know that we miss them until they’re gone, and then it’s too late to get them back… I don’t think I’ve lost my mother’s orchards. I’ll return there one day, once whatever reason that I’m here for is done.”

The bird let out a high stream of anxious peeping at that, hopping out along her shoulder, and when Káta turned to gaze at it, all its feathers were laid flat along its body which was stretched out and tense, its gaze anxious.

“Calm down,” she murmured soothingly, “I won’t leave you behind if you don’t want me to. You can come with me.” The bird still seemed on edge, however, it’s feathered breast rising and falling rapidly. “I don’t even know what I’m here for,” she explained. “I could be here for decades yet; don’t worry about what hasn’t happened.”

The little bird seemed to calm a little at that, and fluffed up its feathers a little, giving itself a shake. It still seemed somewhat ruffled however, and Káta lifted a hand giving it a gentle rub over its head. The bird’s eyelids fluttered with drowsy enjoyment at that, and when she stopped it returned to its prior position by her neck.

“You are a funny little thing,” Káta murmured as she turned to face forwards once more.

The bird let out a faintly belligerent sound, burrowing his soft head against her neck once more as it settled down. Káta laughed a little.

“It’s just you and me in all of Asgard,” she whispered.

The bird cooed sleepily.

They stayed like that for the rest of the night, Káta gazing out to her mother’s orchards, the bird asleep on her shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's only a short chapter I'm afraid, but it does have some Little Bird Loki, so that's a consolation :)  
> I don't think I've got too much more to say about this chapter, although I will warn you that from now on updates will start to be further apart as my inspiration seems to have fled. Still, roughly six or seven chapters in rapid succession is nothing to be sniffed at, and I will try to get the next one out as it's really rather sweet. I'm making no promises, mind.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter  
> Merry Christmas x
> 
> Please do comment :)  
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	22. I Don't Know How

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki summons the courage to see Káta, and some rather unconventional communication takes place.

Káta was out in the gardens. She had a book in hand, but the weather was so delightful she was yet to set herself down to reading, and her mind was preoccupied in thought that would have distracted her in any case. Her encounter with the little bird last night had started her thinking about the bracelet once more, and the way that the bird had of cocking its head on one side whenever it seemed to be trying to understand something was frustratingly familiar, although she was yet to place why.

She was far from any company, save the softly sighing gardens themselves, for the area she had sought took a long time to get to, and many chose to forgo it. It was after she rounded a bend in the path, however, that a feeling of being watched settled over her, drawing her from her thoughts. She paused in her abstracted pacing, glancing up.

Loki stood beneath a tree before her, dappled by the shadows. His expression was hesitant, his eyes anxious.

Káta remained where she had stopped, her heart beating inexplicably fast, silenced. They both stood for a few long moments, gazing at each other. Then Loki tentatively stepped into the light.

“Káta…” He said softly, his voice dry. Káta gazed at him silently for a few more moments.

“You’ve been away,” she said. It was hard to keep her hurt from the words, and a faint note of it crept in despite her best efforts.

Loki’s head fell slightly, his eyes trained on the gravel between them.

“I’ve missed your company.”

Loki’s head shot up, and he blinked nonplussed at the demigoddess. He didn’t need to see her face to know that Káta wasn’t lying, but some part of him needed to see all the other things that she spoke with her silently expressive eyes.

Káta smiled faintly as Loki’s expression of dejection transformed into one of simple bewilderment.

“Why?” Loki couldn’t help the faint note of distrust that entered his tone, and he tilted his head to one side, trying hard to understand. Káta’s expression of gentle amusement changed as he watched her, her brows coming together in a faint frown of thought, her eyes flickering all over his face as she bit slightly on her lower lip.

Káta’s brain was pinging. Loki’s gesture…his head…the angle – the tilting. Two points of something in her mind were tantalisingly close to being joined, and she frowned, struggling to connect them. Then she let out a faint breath of realisation, gazing down at the bracelet about her wrist.

Loki froze, his eyes widening slightly, flickering between the bracelet and Káta, knowing that she had made the connection between it and him. He wanted to disappear, but his very mind felt constricted by the uncertainty of what was about to happen.

Unaware of Loki’s sudden immobilisation, Káta lifted up her wrist, walking towards the now paralysed god, comparing the identical colours that the bracelet was braided with those that Loki wore. Wonderingly, she touched the bracelet, her fingers running over the patterns the way they so often had when it was first delivered to her.

Before her, Loki could not restrain the faint shudder that rippled through his body; not when she was so close to him.

“You’re the smár fugl!” She exclaimed, staring up into his face, which was still twisted with a grimace of attempted control, his eyes shut. “You made me this!”

Loki gazed down into Káta’s marvelling face, the expression on his own unfathomable as he examined hers. He wanted to see only good things, but from experience he knew that such things were the vain hopes of a fool. But with Káta – it could be different, he had hope, and his curiosity, for good or for ill, persisted. The uncertainty and vulnerability of it all unsettled him.

The beginnings of confusion began to crinkle Káta’s brows as she gazed into Loki’s eyes which were filled with a desperate wanting, a hunger that went beyond worded communication and could only be poured from the deepest well of one’s soul. “Loki –?” she began, but the moment she spoke his expression twisted up on itself and he disappeared before she could continue.

Káta gaped at the empty air, the knot that had begun to twist in her chest suddenly unfurled like the abrupt breaking of a dam, leaving her utterly dumbfounded. She blinked, astonished, and then huffed as she spun around looking for the absent god, faintly exasperated at his sudden disappearance.

His expression had changed just before he disappeared. Fear had come into his eyes when she had begun to speak, and she knew that something had done battle inside him, and that in that moment he had lost.

She frowned and sighed heavily, shaking her head sadly before she eventually continued her walk.

 

*

 

Spana glanced over at Rúna, her expression laced with jealousy as Kvasir whispered something into the other nymph’s ear. When Prince Loki had stopped coming to visit Mærsalr, Káta had ceased to join the Nipt Þrír’s group – something the sisters had been thankful for, as Kvasir’s attentions had quickly returned to them. It did not seem that he had given up on her however, for Rúna still came, hovering on the edge of the group until Kvasir drew her in, and began to ply her with questions regarding her friend and her whereabouts.

Vying for the attention of the gods that came to Mærsalr was not something any of the Nipt Þrír were used to. As pure blooded nymphs their company was naturally sought out above the others, and if they were not inclined to the company of their pursuers, the other nymphs were free to fight for the gods’ favour.

Kvasir was known to have favourites amongst all the nymphs, although whenever asked in the company of a group he always vigorously denied such a fact, and it was not uncommon for him to spend his time with a wide number of the nymphs. This Spana was used to. It was his single-minded pursuit of Káta that irritated her. That he wanted a girl who not only blatantly did not bear a single drop of nymph’s blood in her veins, but also did not bear the mark of any of the Nine Worlds in her scent served to enrage her.

The fact that Káta clearly had the protection of Freyja did little to quell Spana’s anger either, for the fact that Káta held inexplicable favour with gods and goddesses irked her. She would have been somewhat more satisfied if people did not think of the upstart when she was not present, but such a thing was clearly not to be. Not yet.

In the time since Freyja’s beast had scratched her, Spana had been plotting. Although the cuts had healed, unsightly scars remained down her arm, warped red welts that she could barely think of without a shudder, let alone look at. Their presence fuelled her desire for revenge on Káta, and when the favour she had held with some gods dissolved when they saw her scars, she became bent on retribution. True she and her sisters could no longer take direct action against her, not without suffering reprisals from the goddess, but anything she could do that would not seem to have happened on her behalf – poisoned words whispered in the right ears to sour the favour she held with the Æsir – Spana would see it done.

In her preoccupation, Spana did not notice Kvasir’s disappearance with Rúna until long after it had happened, turning on her sisters and followers and berating them for not telling her when she did. Her furious admonishments died in her throat as she saw a familiar figure clad in green, black, and gold striding towards the pavilion they occupied.

The Prince had returned.

 

Loki was not particularly enamoured of the idea of returning to the company of the other nymphs, but he could not trust himself to be alone with Káta after yesterday.

What he had seen in her expression had both terrified and electrified him, and his reaction to it scared him. He did not know what light it had been in her eyes, but he did know that it was something that he wanted…fiercely. Fears from the past had risen up however, for those things he most wanted had always been denied him before, and what he had seen in her eyes he wanted above all things.

It terrified him. Wanting something that much. Wanting something so beyond his control with such _strength_. Because it made him vulnerable to the core, and he _knew_ that no instinct or habit or learnt system of protection would _ever_ be able to prevent him from committing himself wholeheartedly to earning that and seeking it out. Self-preservation didn’t come into it anymore. The protection of his body and pride and whatever other sensibilities that he had previously held dear were nothing to seeking out that light. Because that light completed him, somehow. He felt like a puzzle that had never known it had a missing piece until the gap had been filled in. But it had only been temporary – for the most fleeting of moments he had felt whole for the first time in his existence, and he would unthinkingly devote the rest of his life to experiencing that feeling again.

The fears ingrained into him over his lifetime had only just managed to overrule this new impetuosity yesterday, driving him to flee and disappear back to his rooms where he had stood rigid for a long time, his hands balled in fists, shaking. Emotions both foreign and familiar had raged within him, doing battle over a matter he still did not understand.

He knew now that that was where his chief fears arose from; that he was actively pursuing something, he didn’t know what, that he didn’t even understand, and that in doing so he was carelessly opening his deepest recesses to the world and making himself as vulnerable as a new born babe in the middle of a battlefield. All he had done for Káta thus far had been in secret – on his terms. He had put off trying to understand whatever unearthly compulsion had overtaken his mind, the sudden irrationality that had replaced his unadulterated logic. In secrecy such a lapse, although dangerous, could be managed. Yesterday, however, Káta had dragged his secret out into the light, and he was not ready.

But for all his fears he had _wanted_ to hear what Káta had been going to say. And he had wanted to speak candidly with her with a greater urgency than he had ever felt in his entire life. But he couldn’t. He didn’t know how. He couldn’t explain what it was that he felt; he didn’t know what it was himself, just a fire that burnt up his soul, and he’d never needed to before. People were never interested in his side of the story – they expected him to tell lies, and so lies were what he gave them. But Káta didn’t.

 

Káta was nowhere to be seen as he approached the pavilion, and as reckless as his newly asserting internal compass was, it was not so careless as to drive him to enquire with the Nipt Þrír as to her whereabouts. The compulsion that drove him towards Káta was thoughtless as regards injuries that his actions might sustain to himself, but the mere thought of even contemplating action that might endanger _Káta_ was sickening.

Reluctantly, Loki took a seat amongst the nymphs, deftly ignoring the cushion Spana was plumping as she glanced pointedly at him through her lashes. A flicker of annoyance danced across her expression for a moment, but subsided as a comely young god came over and took the seat, wrapping a burly arm about her slender shoulders.

Loki was not in the habit of drinking for courage, but when the nymphs stroking his shoulders and batting their lashes at him proffered a goblet of mead, he did not pass it by. There _were_ some times when a little fortification of the nerves coupled with light-headedness was required, and he rather thought this was one of them.

 

A further four goblets had passed his lips by the time Káta finally made an appearance, reluctantly dragged in by her giggling friend from the library. At the sight of her Loki swallowed the mouthful of mead he had just taken before he was ready, only just managing to keep his mouth shut and prevent the liquid from falling from his mouth and onto his chest. The unexpected rapidity of the action left his throat smarting, and his eyes watered a little as he coughed up the few drops of mead that he had accidentally inhaled. The nymphs around him patted his back sympathetically, offering him advice, but their words fell on deaf ears.

Káta stood, momentarily arrested. She had been lying on her bed, trying to read a book to distract herself from thoughts of Loki and the bracelet and what it all meant, when Rúna had danced in and dragged her out and downstairs, saying that she had a surprise for her and giggling an awful lot.

She had not really been in the mood for a surprise, truth be told, but her cross humour with her friend evaporated when her eyes fell on Loki. Surprise and a little embarrassment filtered into her mind as she stared at him, the realisation that her interest in the god had not gone as unnoticed by Rúna, as she had initially thought.

As she met Loki’s eyes across the room, the confusion she had been feeling about his behaviour lessened a little. The expression in them was almost…scared. She had seen Loki furious, playful, and tentative, she had seen his loneliness and jealousy, and she had seen the luxuriousness of his deftly honed mind, but she had never seen fear cross his face.

His eyes darted down to the goblet that he still held, his slender fingers fiddling with the stem, and Káta was recalled to herself by the gentle pressure of Rúna’s hand in her back. She glanced at her friend nervously, and the gentle little smile that she received in return confirmed her suspicion that Rúna had noticed her and Loki’s reactions to seeing each other.

Reeling a little, and not exactly sure why she felt so anxious about this fact, Káta followed her friend to a relatively empty corner of the pavilion. After sitting and glancing around, she could not help but marvel at Rúna’s adroitness, for they sat at a distance that was neither too far nor too close to Loki and his attendant gaggle, and were positioned such that an unimpeded view was provided of him.

“Rúna…” Káta began, not sure how she was going to continue.

Rúna giggled, “You’ve become very friendly with the young Prince.” She said in soft enough tones that those nearest would not hear, her words a light answer to the question Káta had not known she was asking.

Káta nodded, unable to help but smile a little. “How do you know?” She asked, curiously, unable to keep a faint guardedness from her tone.

Rúna laughed properly at that. “You’re not the only one who’s good at sneaking around, I’ll have you know.” Káta had to laugh; Rúna was by far the best nymph she would ever know.

“I hope you haven’t been spying on us _all_ the time,” she replied, still laughing as she helped herself to a goblet of mead, relaxing for the first time since she had entered the room.

“Have secrets, do you?” Asked Rúna archly, winking as Káta glanced sideways at her.

“Not the sort you’re thinking of.”

“Oh, I’ll believe that when I see it.” Rúna replied disbelievingly, rolling her eyes with a grin. Káta snorted softly, shaking her head – in some respects Rúna was still very much a nymph. “He’s not one that I would favour myself,” Rúna continued, “but if _you_ like him then he can’t be like everyone says he is, and I’m happy to help if I can…” She paused, her eyes fixed meaningfully on Káta, who pointedly avoided eye contact, choosing a grape from a nearby bowl with more care than was strictly necessary. Rúna read Káta’s prolonged silence correctly, and so continued on the line of thought she had been trying to prompt in her friend. “I take it that you’ve had some sort of a lover’s tiff, then,” she said nonchalantly as she acquired and filled a goblet.

“We’re not _lovers_ ,” exclaimed Káta in a shocked whisper, turning around to face her friend the instant she heard the words.

Rúna raised an eyebrow, turning patronisingly towards her friend. “Oh? Next thing you’ll be denying that you even know him.”

Káta frowned in exasperation at Rúna, who was grinning at her slyly over her goblet. “We’re _not_ , I tell you,” she said seriously. She frowned slightly, and glanced over towards Loki. “We’re just…” her voice trailed off as her mind wandered onto him. She watched him for a few moments while Rúna gazed at her steadily. Loki appeared to be drinking…a lot, and Káta’s thoughts flew back to the fear she had seen in his eyes before. “…something else,” she finished at last, her tone absent.

Rúna glanced between her friend and the god that she was studying across the room. Loki seemed to have felt her eyes resting on him, because he had looked up, and their eyes were locked in a connection that seemed strong enough that it ought to have a physical presence. “That I _will_ believe,” she murmured.

 

Loki was not aware of trying to communicate anything as he and Káta gazed into each other’s eyes. He wasn’t aware of anything beyond her gaze, the rest of the world barred and held at bay from that inescapable something that was passing between them.

He had covertly watched Káta take her place with her friend across the room as he wondered what his next move ought to be, his curiosity stirred by Káta’s expressions as they danced between unrestrained amusement, surprise, and unconscious bashfulness.

A wind had picked up outside the pavilion, and the long silk drapes that usually undulated lazily between the supporting columns were now being whipped about, pushed in amongst the clusters of gods and nymphs, and tangling between them.

“Can’t something be done about this wind?” Exclaimed Spana with no little amount of frustration to the room at large from the lap of the god she was nestled in, her expression furious as her previously pristine hair was blown about and into her face.

“Spana; it’s the _wind_. That’s what it does.” Káta said witheringly, smiling with enjoyment as a flurry blew her hair back from her shoulders.

“No one asked for your opinion,” Spana sneered as she attempted to preserve what little dignity she had even as a swatch of her own hair was blown into her open mouth.

Káta’s laugh at Spana’s ignominious predicament was lost in the sound of Kvasir’s words, the god having returned, now with his arms around a pair of fair haired nymph twins. “If you want the wind controlled, perhaps you should ask our good Prince to oblige. He _is_ the master of seiðr here, after all.” At his words all eyes flew to Loki.

Under ordinary circumstances Loki would have been distinctly annoyed – he was not some merchant in the street peddling his wares with his skills simply to be commandeered by the first asker – Kvasir’s words had given him a spark of inspiration however, and he smiled broadly.

“Well, as the nymph quite rightly said,” he indicated Káta with a careless nod of his head, addressing the attentively listening room, “blowing things about _is_ what the wind does. I can’t stop it…but maybe I can manipulate it.”

The nymphs and gods watched spellbound as Loki held his hands apart before him, his fingers rippling as sinuously as water over stone, and the wind slowly lessened and then dropped. Between his hands was a tightly spiralling white vortex, and as Loki glanced up to the applause of all about him, one of his fingers darted out sideways, pointing in Káta’s direction.

A gust seemed to have shot out, for a moment later Káta’s dress billowed and lifted, her hands clamping it down just in time to prevent any serious embarrassment befalling her. The entire room fell into gales of laughter – the Nipt Þrír amongst those most amused – as Káta flushed, her expression hurt and fairly furious as she stared up at Loki in confusion. He did not look at her, however, still gazing about the room. “Oops – my mistake…” he murmured, “the wind really _does_ do as it wishes.”

Then all his fingers rippled, and the wind between his palms dispersed, gusting through the dresses of all the nymphs present to their shrieking displeasure.

Through the cries of consternation and embarrassment of the nymphs, and the laughter and whistles of the gods, Loki finally gazed at Káta, the space between them framed by still blowing waves of the nymph’s silk skirts. The hurt was still evident in Káta’s reproachful golden eyes, but as they met with his, her expression changed into curious understanding.

 

Káta’s upset feelings were stilled by the yearning in Loki’s expression. His eyes were desperately open and unguarded, and there was a sort of explanation in them, beseeching her to understand and asking her for help because he didn’t know how else to reach out to her. Mischief, lies, and trickery were his lifeblood: the instrument that he played the song of his life on. They were all he had ever known. He was like the wind himself – reckless and playful, and utterly beyond control or force; this was what he did, and he couldn’t be stopped from following his own nature.

Realisation that this was part of the reason for Loki’s disappearance last time trickled into her mind as the nymphs finally managed to flatten their skirts, most giggling and coyly blushing at their winking companions. He hadn’t known how to deal with the situation. His presence at Mærsalr today told her that he had wanted to be there yesterday, for she knew full well the depth of his dislike of the nymphs, but now she knew for certain that his life had conditioned him to either shut down or run in situations that were beyond him.

He was trying to open himself to her – but she had long ago guessed that such a thing would be hard for him, given the way his father seemed to treat him. Being open was not an asset, and it was only now that she was beginning to see just how such an action was nigh on impossible for him to achieve.

But he _was_ trying. _Fighting._

Pride swelled up in her heart, and she watched as the smile she gave him melted some of the anxiety and fear that had begun to set his face.

 

Armed thus with such knowledge, Káta bided her time until the moment was right for a trick of her own, and it did not take long until the appropriate opportunity presented itself.

It was two days later, as a small cluster of nymphs and gods sat around the edge of the fountain that stood at one end of the pavilion, that a scheme came into Káta’s mind. Loki had continued to keep his distance, for Káta was sure that he still did not yet feel ready to face the issue of the secret that had been the bracelet, and they had only seen each other in the company of others in the pavilion.

Now, as she padded softly around the edge of the fountain, dipping her toes into the cool water, she eyed him where he sat opposite, this time accompanied by the twins Kvasir had been with the other day. Spana and her sisters were not far away as usual, and Káta had suspicions that the tenacity of Spana’s personality meant that Loki would never be able to visit the hall without the Nipt Þrír appearing soon after in order to ingratiate themselves with him.

Káta had an interest in the way things worked, and had cultivated a relationship with various craftsmen and artisans that had been tasked to come to the hall to fix or deliver things, as well as with those in the markets. Shortly after she had first arrived the fountain had broken, and the craftsman had been called in to fix it. She had watched him about his business and plied him with questions about the workings of the fountain, and as a result had not only acquired a friend, but also knew how to manipulate it.

She stooped, sitting with her legs extended out to one side along smooth stone, and ran her hand idly through the water, covering a vent hole below the surface with her palm. The water pouring from the nine tiers of frolicking nymph statues slowed, and then failed, the tinkling gush of the water replaced with silence.

The other nymphs let out little gasps of consternation and dismay, gazing at the now useless fountain, and exclaiming over its sudden malfunction.

“What are we going to do about it?” Cried a particularly feeble nymph named Halla, who all knew to be utterly useless and prone to bewailing misfortunes without ever providing solutions.

Spana rolled her eyes. “Go find a craftsman, Halla, and stop wittering,” she said tartly. Halla instantly shut her mouth, quelled, and made to scurry from the pavilion.

“Can the Prince not help?” Asked Káta innocently. Loki’s eyes flew to her, one eyebrow quirked in query.

Unna, one of the twins accompanying Loki, stroked his arm, nodding. “Yes! Can you help us Prince Loki?”

“You were so helpful the other day,” her sister Svana added with a flutter of her long lashes.

Loki shrugged, too curious about Káta’s intentions to be annoyed that he was being asked to do such a menial task. “I can have a look.” The nymphs all clapped their hands delightedly, and watched eagerly for another display of seiðr.

Feeling like he had become some sort of freakish novelty, Loki leant forwards, peering into the carved vase of the nearest nymph statue, searching for a blockage.

Below the water, Káta’s hand was thrumming with the pressure of the pent up water that was pushing against the back of her hand. She waited until Loki’s face was right in front of the vase, and then pulled her hand with a little difficulty away from the mouth of the pipe and out of the pool.

The empty pipe sucked in the water, and barely seconds later powerful gushes shot from the various outlets in the statues of the fountain.

A great jet of water blasted into Loki’s face, obscuring him for a few moments as he reeled back, before the water pressure lessened, and the jet became its usual sedate trickle.

All the nymphs had frozen and were looking mortified that such a thing had happened to the Prince in their presence.

Loki blinked the water from his eyes, gasping slightly, and shaking his head so that water droplets from his slicked hair flew everywhere, peppering the stone and nymphs nearest him who squealed. He stared over at Káta, remnants of his initial shock still in his expression, and was met with an enticingly mischievous grin, and the faintest of winks.

Relief flooded him, washing away the concerns that had begun to ferment in his mind since his trick with the wind, and replaced instead by a tidal wave of new ideas for tricks to play on Káta. Whatever it was that he had tried to say to her, she had understood, and he could tell from the sparkle in her eye that she was more than ready to play along.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. It has been quite a long time since the last update, but here we are, and it's a long one! :D  
> Not much else to say, other than lots of emotional confusion for Loki and wet haired Loki because, let's face it, everyone likes wet haired Loki. XP
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it :D
> 
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	23. On the Edge of a Precipice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Through Káta's companionship Loki finds himself transported back to happier days, but even dreams must have their ending with the harsh return of reality...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I highly recommend reading this with "I Am Hers, She is Mine" from the 'Game of Thrones: Season Two' soundtrack as you read this.

There was a soft thud, and Káta looked up from the book she held, sitting on her bed.

After her trick Loki had excused himself from the cloying attention of the nymphs, all of whom had clamoured to dry him off, and Káta had returned to her room.

She smiled at Loki where he had appeared, crouching on her windowsill; she had been expecting him to visit.

His skin still gleamed wetly, his hair drenched, the water beading at the tips and dripping down his collar, a few tiny droplets pearling on his lashes.

“You seem to be making rather a habit of throwing liquids in my face,” he said softly as he straightened and walked lightly down into the middle of her room, his eyes alight with amusement and gratification as he stared down at her. No one had ever dared to play tricks like this on him before, and he found that he rather enjoyed the impudence of it.

“You will recall that the first time was your own fault,” Káta replied smoothly, putting down the book she had barely even opened to read, and moving to stand before him, gazing boldly up into his flashing eyes.

Loki cocked an eyebrow of questioning dissent, his lips curling with faint amusement. “Oh really?” He asked, smirking. “And you continue this now, why?”

Káta grinned widely. “Your expression of shock, of course,” she replied, chuckling. “Yes,” she said, an impish twinkle in her eye, nodding at Loki’s suddenly surprised face, “that’s the one.”

 

The following days were deeply enjoyable for both of them. They seemed to have reached some kind of unspoken agreement not to talk about the bracelet, although Káta continued to wear it, and that done Loki was at ease and they were able to fall back into the routine they had established before, except this time it was with mischief.

It was not uncommon for them each to have multiple tricks in play each day, and somehow their tricks on each other often culminated within seconds of each other.

Káta’s sudden absences from Mærsalr did not go unnoticed by Rúna either, for on one of the rare occasions that Káta appeared for a meal, Rúna took the opportunity to remark that they were acting like a pair of love-struck squirrels rushing through the tree branches at the coming of spring.

In all fairness Káta had not been able to deny the accuracy of the comment, although she resented the love-struck comparison, explaining once again that they weren’t lovers, and that playing tricks on Loki was much more fun than it ever had been on the nymphs. Loki was always on the lookout for her latest ploy, and his vigilance forced her to strategize and manoeuvre more than she had ever had to when she played tricks on the nymphs. It tested her abilities severely, and she thought that there were times when he pretended not to have guessed what she had in store for him, although she never actually asked.

Loki, too, was finding it harder to pull the wool over Káta’s eyes, for although she was no trickster god, her eyes were sharp enough to pick up the finest of details. The difficulty that came from being matched against each other only served to make their fun even more enjoyable however, and their competition did nothing to detract from the restful moments of peace that they enjoyed between capers.

 

Unbeknownst to Káta, however, Loki continued to look in on her before going to bed, and with the progression of their friendship, his nights had become easier, and sleep was almost enjoyable. His dreams, instead of haunting visions of shadows and failures, were blurred with light and laughter.

He was not with Káta all the time, and in the moments when he spent time with Thor it was much more like their relationship had been decades ago when they were children, and the boys more under the keeping and schooling of their mother than their father. In those days Thor had been the typical over-protective older brother – carrying the infant Loki everywhere although he was only a few years into standing himself, scolding those that upset him with his shrill child’s voice, spending hours in fascinated play with his new young sibling, and later helping Loki learn swordplay when he ran into difficulties, in return joining Loki on the harmless capers of their youth and being chased all over Valhalla by the guards, either to answer to some misdemeanour or because they were summoned to their baths.

When they were boys, and yet to reach forty, Odin had begun to take a greater interest and involvement in their schooling and upbringing, deeming them to be worthy of his attention now that they were old enough to begin learning how to be gods and kings. Frigg had tried to spend as much time with them as possible, but Thor soon began to grow into his father, and the brothers’ relationship started to crumble. That had been when Frigg had started to share her seiðr with Loki, and he later made friends with Auðun.

Thor clearly seemed to have a yearning for the old days – a fact that surprised Loki, who had always assumed his brother to be as regretless as he himself was regretful – for there were moments when Thor seemed about to say something, but would break off with a laugh and a ribald joke or a call for more mead. In the time they now spent together, Loki began to see more of the child his brother had been blending with the god he now was. Whenever Odin appeared, however, Loki would vanish, leaving their father to talk to his preferred son, returning to Káta, and drowning his old sorrows in new joys.

 

That night Káta went out to the roof. It was the first time in many years that she had gone out without feeling homesick. She had gone to be close with her home and her mother, to be sure, but instead of seeking solace as she took her usual place on the most south-westerly point of Mærsalr, she sought counsel.

“He’s back, mother,” she murmured to the empty night. “He’s been hurt by something, but he’s come back.” Káta couldn’t restrain the smile that Loki’s return made rise to her face. “I think he trusts me… I _hope_ he trusts me.” She paused, sobered by the thought for a moment, and pulled her legs up to rest her chin on her knees, her arms wrapped around them. “If he doesn’t, then I don’t know what damage I might cause when I try to talk to him...because I’ve _got_ to try.” She looked up from her toes, and out towards home. “When should I try, mother?” The night held no verbal answer as Káta continued to gaze out into the darkness beyond the city’s lights. “I don’t want to hurt him,” she whispered, “…but I think I’m going to have to.” She sighed deeply, and stared up at the stars. “I wish…I wish so _much_ …”

 

When Loki found Káta’s room empty, he did not panic as he had last time. With the time he had been spending with her again, his awareness of her location and emotions through the bracelet had returned such that it was a constant lilt in the back of his mind. He was encouraged by the fact that she was not feeling as melancholy as she had been last time, but simultaneously curious as to the reason why she was up there.

He paused just as he made to change into his bird form, frowning, then nodded slightly to himself, disappearing instead.

Káta was a pale smudge amongst the darkness of the roofs, white haloed in gold, distinguishable now only because he knew her to be there, and as Loki paced silently over the tiles towards her, he saw that her knees where tucked up below her chin as she gazed out towards the Álfheimr gate.

“Hello, Káta,” he said once he was barely three paces from her, coming to sit by her side.

Káta glanced at him. “A bit late to be out, isn’t it?” She asked with a faint smile. Loki gazed at her in surprise, expecting her reaction to his appearance to at least be a bit more shocked.

“You aren’t very surprised to see me here, then?” He asked, gazing at her, his brows rumpled in query.

Káta gazed at his confused expression, which always seemed so much more childlike than any of his others. “I’ve learnt not to be surprised by anything you do,” she replied with a grin.

Loki’s brows rose, the corner of his mouth lifting in a smile. “It seems I shall have to try harder next time. After all, I cannot have you no longer being surprised by me.”

Káta laughed lightly. “Well…we’ll have to see, won’t we?”

Loki’s chuckle blended into hers, and they fell into a companionable silence for a few moments.

“You come out here when you feel homesick,” Loki said musingly after a while, his eyes fixed on the shapes that the night made in the darkness above the city.

Káta glanced at him. “Yes.”

“But you are not homesick tonight?”

“No,” Káta smiled.

“So why are you here?” Loki met Káta’s eyes in honest questioning.

Káta pulled in her lips for a moment as she considered her answer. “I wanted to have a think…ask questions…find answers.”

“And have you?” Káta laughed softly at Loki’s intrusiveness – his unstinting curiosity was something she had quickly become used to, for he would pursue any line of interest with the single-mindedness of a hound following the scent of its quarry, regardless of how impertinent it might be. A shade of embarrassment coloured his eyes, but they remained unwaveringly fixed on hers.

“I think so,” she replied with a smile. “Why are you here?”

“Because you are.” The answer was automatic, and both shared a moment of surprise as they gazed into each other’s widening eyes, Káta’s tinted with gentle amusement, and Loki’s with faint horror.

Káta put out a hand and took one of Loki’s squeezing it gently as she smiled at him. “I’m glad you are.”

Loki felt rigid, his eyes flickering down to their hands for a moment before he managed to collect himself enough to return the squeeze, his frozen expression softening.

Káta gazed down at their hands for a moment as well, then frowned, turning to face Loki, and taking the hand she held in both of her own, her fingers running over the back of it. Loki allowed her to pull him around so that he faced her, and watched her silently as her fingers traced over the unblemished knuckles of first one hand, then the other, before she gazed up at him with an expression of distraught horror.

“Loki!” She gasped softly. “What have you done?”

Loki frowned, perplexed and concerned by her expression. “Nothing. What is it?”

“Your _hands_ , Loki.” Káta said, distressed. “What have you done to them?”

A cold chill settled down Loki’s spine, and he thought back to all the times he had beat his hands bloody and broken against the stone floors and columns of his room, and of the pitted patch of wall that no one else knew about. “Nothing,” he said again.

“Loki,” Káta said entreatingly, “don’t lie to me. I can feel the cracks in your bones – they’re practically splinters –, and the raggedness of your skin. They might be healed over and without a trace to the eye, but I can _feel_ them.”

A shade seemed to fall from Loki’s eyes, and he gazed into her imploring golden ones, knowing that there was no lie he could give that she would not see through. “I…get _angry_ …sometimes.” He said slowly, no longer meeting her eyes.

Káta shivered involuntarily, the tremor passing through her body and into her hands, which still held Loki’s. He glanced up at her quickly, the expression in his eyes abruptly very different.

“You’re cold.” He stood, gently pulling his hands from her grasp, and shrugged off his long outer tunic, carefully draping it around her shoulders, before sitting once more, this time facing out towards the city.

Káta pulled the fabric closer about her, and although it warmed her chilled body, it did nothing to drive out the cold settling in her heart. She continued to stare at Loki’s now impassive moon shadowed profile. “But why?” She whispered.

Loki frowned, and dipped his head, the shadows lengthening across the planes of his face until his eyes were in darkness, and he seemed more comprised of shadow than light. He gazed down at his hands, flexing and knotting them together, his breathing coming out short and harsh. “It lets the pain out,” he whispered, almost to himself.

“Do you promise to always come back?” Káta didn’t know what had made her say it. She knew that it was important for her to see Loki so she could help him, but she could not deny the selfish desire to see him for her own sake. Even with Rúna for company, it was lonely at Mærsalr, and infinitely boring. She had not realised the depth of her loneliness until Loki had come and illuminated the dull life she had been leading with his mischief and zest and intelligence, and then disappeared to leave her with a life that was not simply dull as it had seemed before, but utterly dark.

Loki frowned, drawn out from the darkness of his memories, puzzled by the question. “What?”

Káta breathed heavily. “I don’t want you to go away like you did,” she said softly, addressing her hands, suddenly unable to meet his eyes. “Not again.”

There was an unbearably long silence, during which Káta was torn between fear and regret, until, finally, Loki spoke. “I promise.”

Káta looked up, her eyes gazing into his, astonished and overwhelmed. Loki met her gaze evenly, his expression earnest.

“And that is no lie,” he murmured.

“I know.”

They sat in silence for a long while, seeing only each other’s eyes, until they both looked out across the city once more, wrapped in thoughts that spiralled like the ribbons of smoke that arose from the hearths of a thousand homes and halls before them into the darkness.

 

“Why did you stop coming?” Káta’s question was soft, but the words felt like the tolling of a great bell after so much silence had passed between them.

Loki stared down at his hands, which had somehow become knotted in his lap, his lips pressed together.

“Please, Loki,” she whispered after a long silence. “Please.”

He swallowed, the action made difficult by the knot in his throat. “I don’t _want_ to remember it,” he said slowly, his expression creased with pain and the memory of his own worthlessness. “Not here…not now… I want to forget it all.” He looked up into her compassionate eyes, his own tortured. “If I could use my seiðr to destroy my own memories, then I would have decades ago.” His head dropped once more. “Failures are not meant to be remembered,” he muttered.

“Who says that you failed?” Káta asked softly. Loki looked up, his expression uncomprehending. “You cannot fail by others standards; you can only fail by your own. The judgement of others is as inconsequential as the buzz of a bee to a storm.”

“I _have_ failed by my own standards,” Loki hissed, self-loathing clouding his expression once more.

“By your own…or by your father’s?” Káta asked quietly.

Loki’s head shot up, and he stared at her as though she had become the embodiment of all his fears, his eyes shining with unconscious tears. “You know _nothing_ ,” he spat viciously, his face transformed into a mask of fury, flying to his feet and leaning down to snarl into her face, the first of his tears falling without his knowledge. “I am the son of a _King_! I am a _God_ , a _Prince_! You know nothing of me; nothing at all.” Loki’s tone turned mocking. “And yet you presume to know how of feel, and what I think, and what I need.” Loki leant back and let out a harsh bark of joyless laughter. “I don’t need you – you and your _meddling_! I need you as much as a festering wound needs flies! So do not presume to offer me advice about things that you have no knowledge of, woman.”

He leant back, chest heaving, fury blazing in his eyes even as tears gleamed in them, and spit running down his chin.

Káta’s expression had not changed throughout his entire tirade. Her eyes were sad, and her expression sorrowful.

“Maybe I do not know, Loki,” she replied softly, looking him directly in the eye, “and maybe you do not know either.”

A furious snarl of dissent ripped from Loki’s mouth, and he disappeared.

Káta’s head fell, her expression now given over to sadness as she shook her head softly and sniffed.

Eventually, she rallied her spirits, and tipped her head back, gazing up into the starry heavens, and breathing in deep breaths of the cool night air to wash out her soul.

“He does not know, mother,” she murmured sadly, facing south-westward towards home once more, “and yet he knows…but he does not want to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's relatively short in comparison to the previous chapter, I know, and the following couple of chapters will be short as well, but I am really very proud of this one :D  
> It's been written in the past two days, and the speed of its creation is probably due to three things:  
> 1) I went on holiday to New Zealand, my homeland, and was truly inspired by the magnificence of the landscapes - may they never change.  
> 2) I went to see a recording of the Donmar Warehouse's production of "Coriolanus" a couple of days ago, and Tom's performance lit a fire in my mind.  
> 3) I have listened almost exclusively to "I Am Hers, She is Mine" from the 'Game of Thrones: Season 2' soundtrack on loop for the duration of my writing this chapter. It is an exceedingly haunting and beautiful song. (In fact, according to my iTunes count, I listened to it about 250 times, give or take)
> 
> So, the circle turns, and at the end Loki behaves very similarly to the way he did when they first met, sadly. Gird yourselves for the next chapter.  
> Oh yes, and when Thor and Loki are not yet forty, their equivalent age is about nine.
> 
> Please do comment :) Tell me what your thoughts :)  
> Also, if you like this story, or any of my other ones, and you want access to sneak previews on chapters that I'm working on, Like my Facebook page, or Follow my Twitter :)  
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	24. Apologies and Forgiveness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Painfully aware, and hating himself for his behaviour, Loki tries to apologise...and eventually succeeds.

Loki returned to his room with a roar of fury, kicking over the nearest low table with an echoing bang, and tearing down the drapes that hung over the entrance to his balcony before falling to his knees as he faced out towards the open sky, his cry spiked with physical pain as his bones cracked against the stone, tears of disgust in his eyes.

Rage flooded his veins and mind, directed at himself; at Káta; at his father. She had no right to poke into his affairs, to stir up the deep running troubled waters of his past so that everything she had kept at bay now came back at him in a typhoon, ready to drown him, and her, and all the new memories of light that had been his shield of late. She was just a demigoddess – if his suspicions were correct – and she had no right to affect him the way she did, to know the darkness that he nursed in his heart, to understand him as she did.

Loki’s cry of anger became a hoarse dry sobbing as his head dropped, and he fell sideways, curled in on himself, his hands pressing against the floor as though he could push all that he felt away, shaking with the effort.

His anger with Káta had dissipated as quickly as it had come, replaced by an emotion far more dangerous. Even before he had finished shouting at her on the rooftops, an abhorrence of himself and his actions had begun to fill his body, and it had only been the shocked anger at her ability to so easily reach into him and draw into the light the problems that had stalked him for the last half century, and which he had always done his best to deny and crush, that had kept him from stopping his diatribe in a fit of self-loathing.

The many headed serpent of fury that he so often felt with himself rose up, spitting poison and his actions back in his face, coiling about him and constricting his very mind. He had made so many promises to himself that he would never do anything to hurt Káta again, and yet at the mere mention of his father and the insurmountable wall of his past failures, all were forgotten and lost as easily as a grain of sand on a beach. He hated himself for his weakness. He could protect Káta from the designs others easily enough, but from his own viciousness he was as useless as woven basket used to carry water. The knowledge of his uselessness ate at his mind like the bite of rust on once polished steel, corroding all the worth he derived from her presence.

The blistering rage that he always felt for his father began to seep out from the deep chasm within himself that he usually kept it in, contained and inaccessible, now disturbed and unleashed by the thoughts Káta’s words had sown the seeds of, filling his heart with the painful heat of anger like molten lava. Were his failures really his own…or were they his father’s?

With a cracked bellow of anger, Loki pushed it all away – the dark tangle of unworthy thoughts that he always carried within him – slamming his fist into the floor with a crunch of breaking bone and cartilage that drew a rough howl of pain from his lips, returning instead to the deep black pit of self-loathing, sinking his teeth into his lip until the blood flowed to stifle his cry of agony, which was only another reminder of his own weakness. This was the reason why he was not worthy; he was not a dutiful son. He did not love his father as he should. Ever since Odin had begun to take an interest in his and Thor’s upbringing, a tiny core of anger with his father had begun to form, fuelled by the incessant comparisons Odin made between the brothers and the unending list of Loki’s faults he seemed to relish in providing, until it had grown like some deformed beast into the part of himself that Loki most hated. A son was not supposed to hate his father. A son was supposed to be worthy; a son that a father could be proud of.

Refuge in his own worthlessness and self-loathing was Loki’s only escape from such dishonourable feelings, and as he hid in the clammy, snarled pitch forest of it, scratched by the thorns of all his disappointments, Loki beat his broken hand against the stone again and again, feeling the easing of the pain in his heart, even as the pain of his body rose and was given voice through his parched lips, unheard by himself or any other.

 

Time passed without his knowing, and eventually consciousness flowed back into the darkness that had engulfed Loki’s ravaged mind, accompanied by the excruciating throb of the shattered bones in his hand and the sting of his cut lip. He assumed that he had blacked out from the pain – the amount of blood and shards of bone that were around his hand certainly bore such a supposition out, and it was not an uncommon circumstance when he was so affected.

He pushed himself up from the stone floor of the balcony with some difficulty, his body stiff with cold and woes, wincing whenever he moved his damaged hand, healing it once he was upright, and vanishing the sticky mess of semi-congealed blood, bone, and shredded flaps of skin. His lip he healed as well, wiping the bloody strings of saliva from his chin, and washing the rusty tang of his own blood from his mouth.

His anger gone, he felt hollowed and washed out, weighed down by the rankle of his behaviour towards Káta and the disgust that it generated. A vision of her expression before he disappeared swam into his mind and sticky tears filled his red-rimmed eyes, stinging them as he pressed his forehead into one hand, gently beating against his brows with the heel of his palm, knowing that he did not deserve the patience and kindness he had seen in her face, and that like a greedy miser he could do nothing to stop himself from returning for more.

Disappointment in himself was no foreign feeling, but the guilt that now tarnished all thoughts of Káta was new. He knew now what he had to do. This was something he _had_ to apologise for. Properly.

Loki took in a deep breath, letting it out slowly, collecting himself as he did so, and then struggled to his feet.

 

Káta lay sleeping, as peaceful as he was disturbed; the complete antithesis to himself. Loki sighed as he sat down in his customary place, letting himself fall back against the wall with a tired huff, wishing that such things as apologies could come as easily to him as they seemed to come to her.

Apologies were things that had been ground out against his will in the past; Fróði was the only individual in the whole of the Nine Worlds who would ever be able to boast of actually receiving genuine ones, and even they had not come easily.

Watching Káta’s sedate rest helped to settle and soothe the disturbance of Loki’s own turmoil, quietening the harsh screech of his inner voice down to an indistinct background murmur, and rounding off the sharp edges of his self-loathing so that no new cuts were made to his incorporeal self-worth.

He could not help but smile at the sight of her still wearing his outer tunic beneath the furs, her slender arms through the armholes making her look like a child wearing her father’s clothing. His colours on her looked _alive_. It made _him_ feel alive.

Loki’s smile widened a little, and he took in a deep breath, letting his head fall back against the stone of the wall, and staring up at the ceiling and the faint rippled patterns that Káta’s glow made on the huge beams, casting more light than shadow.

That was what she did, he realised. She did not cast a shadow; she cast light. He had lived in the shadow of first his father and then his brother for decades, and he knew that his mother had shared her seiðr with him so that he might have some light of his own in the darkness they palled him in, but even for that he was reviled and called unnatural, unless some god or other was in need of his services to fix their mistakes or predicament.

Káta, however…Káta had never cast a shadow over him, not once. She illuminated his nature; gave him a foil so that those parts of himself usually hidden by others – the good parts that no one expected him to have – were suddenly thrown into sharp relief. She let him be his best.

Determined now to make amends, Loki stood, moving to Káta’s bedside in an instant, his mouth open to speak. But words failed him.

With a compressed growl of frustration, he spun away, his hands to his head. He was ready to apologise. He _wanted_ to apologise. Badly. But something still held him back, some deep seated misgiving refused to let go.

Thinking it might be easier to write out an apology than to face Káta’s saddened expression once more, Loki strode over to her desk, sitting down and taking out a piece of parchment.

The quill hovered over the paper, loaded with ink and shining in the moonlight from the window, but the words did not want to come, held back by a huge barred gate inside him.

Loki closed his eyes for a moment, trying to concentrate and own his mind, but was plunged into a very old memory.

His seventeen year old self was standing before Odin, a woebegone and terrified expression on his face that belonged to those only just out of infanthood when in a position of mortal fear. It was an expression that he had been very familiar with during his childhood, never far off whenever he was in Odin’s presence, and Loki remembered the incident well.

He and Thor had been playing in their mother’s chambers, laughing and rolling across the carpets while she worked at her loom, weaving a new tapestry. Frigg had suddenly been visited by foresight, however, and taken from them to her Seeing room by her handmaidens, the children left alone. Their game had become more boisterous, and they had rushed out into the corridors of Fensalir, and then out into the great winding passages between Halls, Thor giving chase to Loki, who even then had been surprisingly quick on his feet and often able to outrun his older brother, despite the fact that Thor had four years advantage on him.

Loki had turned to check his brother’s progress, and knocked against a podium that was one of a series along the walls of the corridor, each of which held a finely carved stone tablet, illuminated and inscribed with the various great deeds and achievements of gods and goddesses past and present. Both boys had watched, frozen in abject terror as the plinth had rocked, and then fallen against the next, its tablet crashing to the floor in an explosion of breaking stone, the next doing the same, again and again on down the corridor, until every pedestal had fallen and every tablet smashed.

Odin had come to investigate the commotion, summoned by the cries of the horrified gods and goddesses that already crowded the scene of destruction, and had taken the two young princes to Hlidskjalf to extract an explanation. They had given the truth of the matter, and Odin had dismissed Thor, who left with some reluctance, his eyes anxiously fixed on his trembling younger brother.

Loki had only been able to stand the furious one-eyed scrutiny of his father for a moment before the tears he had been trying to keep back fell, and a child’s apology had tumbled from his lips, repeating “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, father, I’m sorry,” endlessly, until Odin had silenced him with an ear-splitting crash of Gungnir.

That day Loki had learned that his apologies were worthless. Because no amount of saying that he was sorry would fix the broken tablets, no amount of crying would change the past, and there were no words he could say that would earn his father’s forgiveness for the damage he had caused. It did not matter that it had been an accident, it did not matter that Loki was a child and barely out of his toddler years, and it did not matter that he had apologised.

The quill fell from Loki’s nerveless hand in a splatter of ink, and he stood abruptly, forcing the shaking that threatened to overtake his body into his hands, and balling them up into fists, trying to crush the weakness that the motion revealed.

He beat one fist against his leg for a moment, trying to regain control, but stopped, surprised when his hand met a hard resistance in his pocket. Distracted, Loki reached curiously into his pocket and withdrew a small leather pouch, opening it and tipping Káta’s wooden puzzle out onto his palm.

His eyes flickered up to Káta for a moment where she lay peaceful and oblivious, and then back to the cube, bouncing it in his palm slightly, steeling himself. Quietly, he went over to the stool beside her bed, and placed the cube down on it, then vanished.

 

Mindful of the promise he had made, Loki returned the next day, although he was in a quiet and depressed mood, fearful what reaction would await him, and unsure as to whether or not Káta would regret asking him to make such an oath. It was his turn to play a trick, as it only seemed fair that they alternated, but he felt dull spirited, and did not think that doing so would be a good idea.

Káta was not in her room, but instead out in the gardens, knowing that he would find her easily enough in the uncanny way that he always did. When Loki eventually appeared, his expression downcast and morose enough that it would well befit a funeral, she knew that he had probably spent most of the night berating himself for his behaviour on the roof. She had forgiven him almost the moment he had begun to speak, for she knew that they had been words of anger and frustration, and not indicative of his true thoughts. She knew, too that he had come to see her in the night, having found the faintly crumpled and ink splattered parchment on her desk, and the puzzle by her bed, and guessed that he had tried and failed to apologise to her. Káta had been cheered by the knowledge that Loki was aware of his behaviour and that he was trying to make amends as she had folded his tunic away, but the difficulty that he appeared to be experiencing simply to apologise was troubling. She had stroked the supple leather and fabric of the tunic sadly, bemused by the odds that the sweetness of his gesture made with his inability to apologise, tucking it away under her pillow for safekeeping.

Determined to lift his spirits, and guessing that no trickery would be forthcoming from the God of Mischief in such a miserable state, she decided to play a trick of her own.

They were in a small wooded grove that led to a secluded set of ruins that were excellent for hiding and climbing. When Loki appeared, Káta slipped down out of the tree she had been waiting in, waving goodbye to the butterfly that had been keeping her company, and bounced over to the glum prince.

“Loki?” She asked softly, trying to meet the god’s eyes, which remained stubbornly averted from hers. “ _Loki_ ,” she said, this time a little sternly.

His eyes wandered tentatively up to meet hers, and she pulled a hideous face, giggling at his surprise and skipping back as a little of the light began to return to Loki’s eyes.

“Come on!” She called, still laughing as she began to make her way down the path away from him. Loki, confused but beginning to feel a faint strain of relief, watched her progress, bemused.

“Where are you going?” He called as she continued to dance backwards.

“Not telling,” she sang, spinning around and shooting him a wink, before hopping further along the path, “come on!”

With a faint smile, Loki began to follow.

 

By the time they reached their destination of the ruins, both were somewhat out of breath. Loki had begun to jog a little to catch Káta up along the way, but with a laugh she had sped up, darting off the path and zigzagging through the trees as fleet footed as a deer, whilst Loki followed, marvelling at her speed and deftness, laughing himself now, and disappearing and reappearing in an attempt to catch her. Every now and then he had come close, his arms almost managing to encircle her about the waist so that he could pull her to a standstill, but with a shrieking laugh she would manage to dance out of his grip, his fingers just tickling her sides.

When at last they reached the ruins, Káta had turned to face him, halting so abruptly that Loki had almost skidded into her, his feet sliding across the ground which was damp from a light shower that had fallen that morning. They stared at each other, barely inches apart, catching their breath, their hair tousled from their exertions.

“You,” Loki panted lightly, “are quite –”

“A mischief?” Káta asked with a grin, an impish glint in her eyes.

Loki heaved out a breath with a faint laugh as he smiled widely. “Yes.”

“It must be the company I’m keeping,” Káta replied as they began to walk side by side along the path that led into the ruins, and under a large stone arch that was almost invisible due to a cloak of ivy, the leaves of which were huge and cup-like. “I can’t _think_ who it might be,” she said, her voice heavy with sarcasm as she shot a sideways glance at the prince.

Loki chuckled. “Well,” he said slowly as they paused under the arch, gazing down at her with eyes that practically glowed in the gloom of the forest, “if you ever need help finding out…I’ll always be here.”

Káta smiled gently, the mischief suddenly leaving her expression. “I know you will be,” she replied quietly, reaching up with one hand.

A moment later a great cascade of water poured down over Loki’s head and shoulders, drenching him to the skin, and Káta skipped backwards, laughing at the success of her trick.

When the unexpected deluge had finally finished, Loki’s shocked and unimpressed expression could be seen gazing at her, water dripping from every line of his face.

“ _Why_ , do you keep _wetting_ me?” He asked exasperatedly, eyeing his waterlogged clothing, which had now become even heavier than usual. “And how did you do that?”

Káta pointed wordlessly up at the arch of ivy above them, laughing too much to speak, and Loki could see that each of the huge bowl-like leaves held as much water as a washbasin. The one above his own head was now empty from when Káta had tipped it, but the others were still filled with rainwater. Káta took her hands from her mouth, still giggling, laughter and apology in her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she gasped, “I couldn’t help myself!” She dissolved into another fit of giggles for a moment, before she managed to collect herself enough to explain. “You always look so surprised.”

Loki’s face softened at the gentle smile that remained on Káta’s face and he took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, too.” He said quietly, his eyes earnest as they met hers.

Káta’s smile widened, forgiveness and understanding in her eyes. “I know.”

Thankfulness flooded Loki’s eyes for a moment, and he dipped his head. Then, with a flick of his fingers as he glanced up, he emptied the contents of every leaf above her.

A miniature waterfall surged down, completely obscuring Káta for its duration, although the roar and rush of water did not manage to block out her sudden cry of shock.

When at last the water had finished, draining away into the woods and puddling at their feet, Káta’s flimsy dress was plastered to the curves of her body, so that amongst his amusement Loki felt a very different emotion as he gazed at her, before laughter overtook him once more at the surprised and breathless expression on her face.

“You’re right,” he said, taking in a deep breath to halt his laughter, “it _is_ quite satisfying seeing that surprised expression.”

Káta, who had started to grin herself, regarded her dress, then glanced at him with an expression of mock sternness. “You’d better dry this out – or else.”

Loki chuckled, executing a low sweeping bow. “Your wish is my command.”

 

Later they sat together in a sunny patch at the very top of the ruins, their clothing now dry thanks to Loki’s seiðr, a cloud of colourful butterflies flitting about them as their legs dangled over the edge.

Loki was hesitant to reach out to the fragile creatures as Káta did, worried about damaging their flimsy wings or frightening them away. Káta watched his concerned expression fondly.

“Here,” she brought her own hand back towards them, bringing with it a huge iridescent green and black butterfly. Loki watched anxiously as Káta carefully cradled the creature as it lazily beat its powdery wings, slowly transferring it to Loki’s leg.

The butterfly seemed quite contented to remain on the green fabric, perhaps mistaking it for foliage, and inch by inch Loki tentatively moved his hand towards it, until eventually it wandered onto his palm.

With careful slowness, Loki raised his hand up to eyelevel as Káta smiled, swinging her legs delightedly, watching as Loki admired the shimmering creature.

“I like flying things,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Fly free.” The butterfly took to the air, languidly fluttering in a loop before him, and then spiralling away to dance with its fellows.

His confidence now gained, Loki put his hand out into the fluttering cloud of flashing colours, and it was barely a moment before a whole host of tiny butterflies, all with wings that constantly shimmered between purple and blue with every movement, settled on his fingertips, covering the back of his hand with a wave of shifting colour.

Káta smiled as Loki turned to look at her with delighted excitement. “I can do it!” He exclaimed, his eyes drawn back to the shuffling group on his hand.

“Of course you can,” Káta replied. “It’s all about confidence.” She grinned as the butterfly resting on her shoulder fluttered away.

Loki nodded grinning, watching as the butterflies on his hand flapped off in a spray of dispersing colour.

Káta watched as he reached out to the surrounding cloud, frowning slightly as she glanced at his hand. “Loki, look at me,” she asked.

“Hmm?” Loki turned abstractedly, but his faint smile faded as he met her saddened eyes. “You’ve done it again,” she said softly, her eyes flickering from Loki’s right hand to linger on his lower lip.

Loki’s hand fell from the sky back into his lap, and he didn’t dare turn away from her, yet he couldn’t bring himself to meet her eyes, instead gazing sideways at the forest canopy behind her, his nostrils flaring slightly.

Káta released the small yellow butterfly she had been sheltering in her hands and moved forwards slowly, as though approaching a wild animal frozen by fear, Loki’s eyes not shifting from the place where he had fixed them, taking the prince’s rigid form by the arms.

The moment she touched him, Loki’s eyes fell shut, and they did not open until she spoke again.

“You don’t have to do this to yourself, Loki. There are other ways to let the pain out… Just as we always have a choice in what we do; there are always other options.”

“I have never had a choice,” Loki muttered, almost mournfully to the stones between them where a bright green butterfly wandered, shrugging her hands off him.

“You do now,” Káta said gently, and Loki looked up at her questioningly, “I’m giving it to you.”

Loki blinked uncomprehendingly. “How?”

“Talk to me – share the pain,” Káta replied. “It will not make it grow,” she said soothingly, catching sight of the sudden light of fear that leapt into Loki’s eyes. “It _will_ let the pain out. I won’t judge you…but I _will_ tell you the truth. Let me carry some of the burden for you…you don’t need to do it all alone.”

Loki turned away, gazing forwards as his brows creased frenetically, his lips pulled in tight as he attempted a deep shuddering breath, his eyes closing as though with a great effort.

One hand slowly untangled itself from the white knuckled ball in his lap, faltering as it reached out blindly for hers, and grasping onto them when at last it found them, shaking slightly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *takes in a deep breath, and lets it out*  
> SO MUCH TO SAY  
> Right, well, first of all, just a note: when it says that Loki was seventeen, his equivalent physical age would be about four years and 3 months. So he's still just a kid really... *shakes fist at Odin* And in that memory Thor is eighteen, with an equivalent physical age of 5 years and 3 months. There's not really that much difference between them in years.
> 
> And now on to the emotions... Um. Sorry? The opening is kind of...horrific...GUH, so many feels. But you got more happy feels than I originally intended when Loki sees Káta again. Interestingly enough I had an idea for where I wanted that to go, but no inspiration was coming as I wrote, and my inspiration/brain seemed to want to go in a different direction to the one I had originally planned, so I let it, and here you are! Butterfly scene! ..and MORE wet Loki XP Aaand then MORE feels to end it XD
> 
> This time the music I listened to began with the same sad song from the previous chapter - 'I am Hers, She is Mine' from "Game of Thrones", but ended with 'Humility and Love' (kinda perfect title, really) from the soundtrack for "Creation" (which, incidentally, is a really good film, though it will make you cry).
> 
> This chapter and the previous one are ones that I've been really quite proud of, so I hope you've enjoyed them! :D Especially because Uni literally restarted today, so updates are going to be few and far between. Really few and far between. I'll do my best to make it not so, but it's just a heads up really, especially cos this is my final year so everything counts even more.
> 
> Anyway, like I said, I hope you enjoyed this chapter...in between, you know, gross sobbing *apologetic smile*
> 
> Please give Kudos or comment :) Tell me what you like or don’t like :)  
> Also, if you like this story, or any of my other ones, and you want access to sneak previews on chapters that I'm working on, Like my Facebook page, or Follow my Twitter :)  
> https://www.facebook.com/josephinetomkinsauthor  
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	25. Two Lives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite their growing closeness, Loki and Káta still have their separate lives to lead, for all that they spend a lot of their time apart thinking about each other.

After that when Loki was troubled by events in Valhalla, he would come just before night fell, and they would spend the night together talking on the roof, Káta trying to ease out the painful tangle that was knotted up inside the prince. Unused to such methods as he was, Loki initially found it tricky to unlock his tongue about certain matters that ran deepest, but with Káta’s gentle patience and instinctive ability to ease the path for him, it was not long before he was able to speak with near freedom of whatever troubled him, although there were certain subjects that he continued to shy away from with an almost violent aversion.

Depending on the issue, Loki was either successfully coaxed through the matter, or would explode and disappear, although when he did he no longer beat his hands until they broke. On such occasions, the next day they would be tricking each other as usual, cheerful and light-hearted – the troubles of the night not forgotten, but the harsh words of anger disregarded. True to Káta’s words, Loki felt lighter after their discussions, and the bottled up pain would flood out in an easing relief the more he spoke.

The initial gulf and pain caused by the deprivation of each other’s company soothed, they began to settle into more normal routines, for both had duties to attend to – Loki in particular – and their absences had begun to be noticed. From seeing each other nearly all day every day, they gradually reduced the time they spent together to several days a week, Loki appearing whenever it was convenient, and trying to arrange times when both of them were free – Loki having decided that being considerate of Káta’s schedule was a good idea, even if the demands on her time were not as important as those on his.

The godly duties that Loki had neglected were taken up once more, and he began to be a dependable presence at table in Valhalla once more. His presence was not resented by those he sat with either, for all were stunned by the manner that the prince now conveyed himself in. It could not be called jovial – Loki had never been jovial – but he was much more like he had been when he was younger; carefree and a good deal more prone to laughter, his trickery taking form in light hearted japes that all could laugh at.

Fastaðr in particular welcomed his return to training with great joy, having heard of the decline in his temperament following his replacement on the mission, and the two of them had celebrated by teaming up and beating every einherjar, Valkyrie, god or goddess that tried to attack them on the training field.

Káta, too, began to be seen a good deal more about Mærsalr, and Rúna, who had missed her friend’s company a good deal, plied her with impertinent questions about Loki and what they had been doing, all of which were rebuffed or laughed at. They began to spend more time together, as they had before, and girlish giggling trips around the grounds and various marketplaces of Asgard became more common. Rúna had a particular delight for making eyes at those men who stared too openly at them, often embarrassing the watcher, and sending them pair of them into amused fits of giggles.

The tapestry design which had lain discarded for so long, was taken out once more, and the pattern seemed to practically be making itself as Káta sketched and drew until her hands turned black from the coal.

Fróði began to see more of them, although never together, when it had been a very long break without news from either party. He was not three hundred and seventy six for nothing, however, and had very quickly guessed that their absences from the library had been because they were spending time together. It gladdened him, knowing that Loki was spending time with Káta. Out and away from the frustrations of Valhalla, Fróði hoped that Loki would be able to figure out the problems that always seemed to plague him, and when the prince and Káta began to resume their visits to the library it was not without a certain degree of satisfaction that Fróði saw both of them slightly changed and influenced by the time spent in the other’s presence.

Káta, for all her innate cheerfulness, had been stifled by living amongst the nymphs, he knew, and the star-like spark that had always seemed to dance in her eyes when she had first made his acquaintance, and which had dimmed over the years, was back, along with a new and distinctly impish smile and a permanent beaming glow that she seemed to radiate. The change was subtle, but plain to see for the old librarian when he knew her as he did.

The change to Loki however was pronounced enough that even those who barely knew the prince might have guessed that some transformation had overcome him. His conversation seemed sharper than ever, and he laughed more than Fróði had ever known him to, radiating a zest for life as though some internal fire had been stoked and fuelled such that it had risen from a tiny gleaming coal to a joyous great wildfire.

 

For all their progress, however, Loki was still reticent about those matters regarding his father, although Káta heard enough fitful invective against Thor to know that the matter was more complicated than it had first appeared. In the moments when she dared to push the prince, suggesting that the origin of his particular trouble of the night might lead back to Odin rather than his brother, outbursts were liable to occur, although he had become better at apologising for them.

After their harder discussions, when the matter was either soothed and explained but left for Loki to think over in bed, or left unresolved by the prince’s angered disappearances, Káta would lie awake for a little while, stroking the bracelet about her wrist, if only to let the prince know that she still cared and thought of him. The sensations that her actions produced in Loki were soothing enough to lull him into sleep, even after the most trying of discussions, comforted by the knowledge that he did not have to face the black pit that lay inside him in isolation any more.

True to her word, Káta was bemusingly frank with Loki, speaking her mind and thoughts about what he told her, even as she encouraged him to speak without restrictions. Loki was used to saying what he wished in order to execute a trick, but his words were more often than not lies, and he was not used to speaking truths, let alone those that came from his deepest soul. Káta’s honesty, however, gave him a platform to build the tentative beginnings of a firmly rooted trust with her, and opened Loki up the way nothing else had, albeit tentatively.

 

Life apart was not without enjoyment, for each had friends and activity enough to occupy their time and thoughts, but both found moments – idle or otherwise occupied – when they thought of the other and wondered what they were doing, impatient for their next meeting. Loki’s reasons to come down and talk began to become steadily thinner and thinner, turning into excuses more than anything else, their transparency obvious enough for an infant to spot, but Káta did not care…and nor did he.

Loki was aware that he might have begun to make a slight fool of himself, but with Káta he rather enjoyed making a fool of himself. Being a fool with her was fun. It made him feel free to do so, and he knew that no matter how much she might ever laugh at him, her laughter was never cruel. Because he laughed with her, and more often than not she would be making just a big a fool of herself alongside him.

Days came where all they would do was be as ridiculous and juvenile as they wished: chasing each other through the grounds of Mærsalr until they became so breathless it hurt to laugh, and could do no more than flop down on the grass, clutching their sides and trying to stem the laughter that continued to bubble up; hiding in bushes and leaping out at unsuspecting passers-by, or dropping the most disgusting things they could find on the nymphs and their companions, nearly falling out of the tree they were hiding in from laughter.

Eventually, the day came when Káta no longer asked why it was that Loki was there, or what matter was troubling him, and Loki no longer felt the need to explain away his presence. He would simply be there, and if he needed to talk, they would talk. It was as simple and natural as water running down a river.

 

One day, when Káta was executing a truly mess-making search for one particular book that she needed to return to the library, she found the outer tunic that Loki had draped about her shoulders that first night he had come to her on the roof. She paused in her hunt, sitting back on her bed for a moment as she tucked back the curls that had come loose from her hair, the folded tunic in her hands. It was made from well-worn black leather, and lined with a soft finely woven wool dyed Loki’s shade of forest green.

In all that had happened over the past few weeks she had quite forgotten that it was still in her possession, but she remembered the moment clearly. It had been one of Loki’s sweet gestures that came out of nowhere with no expectation of reciprocation or thanks. They never failed to make a flare of warmth erupt inside her.

That first night after wearing it she had folded up and tucked it away, well hidden in case any of the nymphs decided to snoop through her room (a rather irritating habit they had indulged in early on, but which thankfully had become much less common now), with the intention of returning it to the prince.

She ran one hand over the leather, which was supple and soft with use, blushing at the memory of waking up to be enveloped in Loki’s scent, and just how pleasant it had been.

“What _have_ you done to your room?” Loki’s bemused query startled Káta enough to make her jump, a squeak of fright escaping her lips as she turned to see him surveying the messy clutter of discarded objects that now scattered her room from his usual place on the windowsill.

“I was – uh – looking for a book that I need to return,” she replied distractedly, getting up and carefully navigating her way over to him. “I found this.” She held out the tunic for him to take.

Loki gazed down, regarding the tunic in Káta’s hands, and then her. “Keep it,” he replied, an odd but not unwelcome emotion in his serious expression. Káta frowned in confusion. “You never know when I might need something to change into,” he said by way of an explanation, his mouth now widening into a grin, “what with all the water and ink you keep dousing me with.”

Káta’s expression of confusion transformed into amused exasperation, and she threw the tunic at Loki’s chest, winding him slightly, even as they both laughed. “I might just wet you for that,” she said, still laughing as Loki tossed the tunic onto her bed.

Loki glanced at Káta with a mock wounded expression. “What? After what I’m about to do for you? That’s gratitude for you.” He tutted, smirking.

Káta rolled her eyes. “And what exactly _are_ you going to do for me?”

Loki smiled lazily. “What’s the name of this book you were looking for?”

“The seventh volume of compiled harp music,” Káta replied with faint curiosity, interested to see what Loki was about to do. The god nodded, and with a snap of his fingers the book Káta had named zoomed out from under a bundle of winter furs that had fallen on top of it, and stopped in his outstretched waiting hand.

“To be returned?” He clarified, his eyes alight as they gazed into Káta’s surprised but thankful ones. She nodded. Loki’s palm below the book jumped, and the volume leapt from his hand, disappearing. “Returned.”

“You want to go somewhere, don’t you?” Káta asked shrewdly, turning away and beginning to tidy up her scattered possessions.

Loki tilted his head slightly.

“Well I’m not coming until all this is tidied up,” Káta replied, seeming to hear the prince’s motion rather than see it. Loki sighed.

“I rather thought as much. Stand back.” He put his hands out before him, palms down, and then briskly scooped them up, every displaced item leaping up with the gesture. Káta watched astonished as Loki clapped his hands, sending every object flying about her room to its assigned place. She laughed softly.

“Who’d have thought the great Trickster God could use his seiðr for domestic chores,” she said, a twinkle in her eye as she glanced at Loki’s smug expression. She paced about, her eyes running over everything. “You really do seem to know the layout of my room,” she commented, moving to stand before Loki who gazed down at her, still standing on the windowsill.

“Better than you might think,” he replied, a mischievous grin crinkling the corners of his eyes. Káta smiled.

“Is this the truth coming from the God of Lies?” She asked with mock astonishment, still smiling. Loki’s grin widened as he leant down towards her.

“It _is_ something I have been known to speak, but _shh_ ; I can’t have everyone knowing.” He winked.

Káta chuckled, amused. Loki had been becoming increasingly more playful of late, as though the easing of his troubles was letting him open up younger more carefree parts of himself that would otherwise be locked away. “So,” she said, getting up onto the windowsill beside him, “where are we going?”

Loki pouted. “Don’t I get thanks for my assistance?”

Káta’s smile widened and she looked down, taking Loki’s hand in her own before looking up into his suddenly surprised eyes. “Thank you, Loki.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it's been a while in coming, but here we are! :D  
> Initially I didn't have the end scenario, which made the chapter boring and too short, so the extra wait was because I was trying to figure something out, and the end scenario is what came into my head! X3
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it :D
> 
> Please give Kudos and/or comment :) Tell me what you like or don’t like :)  
> Also, if you like this story, or any of my other ones, and you want access to sneak previews on chapters that I'm working on, Like my Facebook page, or Follow my Twitter :)  
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	26. Sharing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Káta makes a decision to share more of treasures and secrets with Loki, and Fróði comes to a heartwarming realisation.

Káta was deeply aware that the exchange between herself and Loki could not be one-sided. She had opened herself up to him to begin with in order to gain his trust, but now that he _was_ trusting her, implicitly, and sharing things that she knew he had never spoken about before, it was high time that she began to share more of her own secrets with him.

It was the moment she had been waiting for, although she had never realised it until now, so it was completely without apprehension that she told him to ride down the next day.

Loki had gazed at her with a bemused expression, but had done as she asked, coming down the following day on a beautiful sleek black stallion, meeting her at the hall’s stables where she was preparing her mare.

“Are you going to tell me where we’re going?” Loki asked as they trotted along the wide roads of the city, slowly making their way to the Gate of Iða.

“Out of the city,” Káta replied with a wide smile. Loki rolled his eyes, but urged his horse into a canter to keep up with Káta, whose mare – just as spirited as her rider – had put on a little burst of speed.

 

Once they were out of the city, Káta turned to Loki with a mischievous grin.

“Catch me!” She cried, her mare leaping forwards and galloping full tilt away across the great, yellow-grassed plain with what sounded like a defiant whinny of amusement.

Loki let out a laugh of exasperated amusement, his destrier already moving and giving chase with a determined snort.

Spirited as Káta’s mare was, she was smaller than Loki’s charger, and although she gave as good as she got, it was only a few exhilarating minutes before they were almost riding knee to knee, the wind pulling at the riders’ hair and dancing with the horses’ manes and tails.

Káta glanced sideways, her hair whipping her face, to see Loki laughing with the same delight that she felt filling her veins, the reckless speed that they were going at releasing something inside their chests that set their hearts thrilling. Side by side they thundered over the turf, their horses charged with the same giddy feeling as themselves, until eventually the mountains of Asgard began to draw near.

Loki had guessed yesterday that they would be going to the well, and had determined to tell Káta that he had already been there, although he knew she probably would have guessed such already, knowing that he had been the little bird. His horse followed hers through the network of the forest, still unable to divine the path that she followed himself, until eventually the trees opened out into her clearing.

Káta slid gracefully from her mare’s bare back, pulling off the bulging saddle bag she had draped over it, and casting her loose to wander amongst the grass and nibble at the red clover. Loki followed suit, pulling off his destrier’s saddle and leaving it over a wide, low hanging branch, and the gleaming animal trotted off, the horses snorting and circling each other for a few moments before settling down to the serious business of grazing together, nose to nose.

“I’ve been here before, Káta,” Loki admitted, following her out from the shade of the trees into the sun.

Káta smiled widely at him as she paused mid-spin to face him, her eyes amused. “I know.” He followed the line of her eyes as she glanced down to her wrist where his bracelet always rested, and he caught a glimpse of the green feather he had once left her, now securely attached to one of the sealing shield knots.

Relieved, Loki followed Káta slowly across the clearing towards the well, but he soon stopped short in surprise when she began to pull her dress off.

Káta laughed as she glanced over her shoulder to see Loki’s confused and faintly alarmed expression. “We’re swimming,” she said with a smile as she turned and waded into the water, still wearing her under shift. “Come on.”

Frowning a little, Loki stripped off his clothes until he was only in his underpants, and waded in after her.

The water was deliciously cool after the warmth of the ride and the sun in the clearing, and he ducked his head beneath the surface, bursting out in a spray of water.

Káta laughed, shying away from the flying water droplets as she paddled backwards towards her apple tree.

“Having fun?”

Loki grinned. “A little.”

Káta’s expression flashed mischievously for a moment so briefly Loki thought he had been mistaken in seeing it as she suddenly dipped below the surface. Under the water, she darted at him so quickly he didn’t have time to react as her hands closed about his ankles and pulled him under, only just managing to heave in a surprised breath before the water closed over his head.

They broke the surface in near synchronisation, Káta laughing delightedly as the water dripped down Loki’s face.

“That. Was cheeky.” Loki said, fighting to keep his expression disapproving as Káta coyly spun before him, just out of his reach.

“Why else do you think I did it?” She asked with a giggle, her mouth curling in a challenging smirk.

Loki raised an eyebrow, and then lunged at her, Káta only just slipping through his hands with a shriek of laughter. Her escape was short lived, however, for mere seconds later she was caught in his arms from behind, dragged backwards through the water, shrieking as he laughed, and then tossed up to land back in the well with a great splash.

“If you’re not careful our clothes will get wet,” she reminded Loki as he floated lazily before her after she resurfaced, his expression amused.

The prince’s brows quirked in a shrug. “I’m used enough to that already…now I wonder whose fault that might be…” He eyed her severely.

Káta cracked a grin.

 

After a further trading of splashes, they floated on their backs, gazing up into the leafy canopy above them, soaking in the extreme tranquillity that the glade seemed to exude.

It was a few moments before Loki realised Káta’s hand had curled around his wrist, and as he turned to see what she wanted, she gestured towards her apple tree. He followed her wordlessly through the water, and together they leant on the edge of the bank.

Káta gazed speculatively up at the glowing apple, and Loki watched her carefully, waiting. “How much have you guessed about me?”

Loki tilted his head to one side. “You’re not a nymph – you could never be a nymph… So you have to be a demigoddess or something similar, daughter of Iðunn.”

Káta smiled faintly, but when she glanced towards Loki there was a melancholy in her eyes. “I don’t know what I am, exactly,” she murmured, “or at least, not who.”

Loki frowned.

“You know I was raised in my mother’s orchards in Álfheimr, by the dryads. But I have never known who my father was.”

“But your mother knows?”

Káta nodded. “All she’s told me is that he was a dryad of immense power.”

“A dryad?” For all that it made sense – her natural affinity with the woods and wilds – Loki could not help but be shocked.

“Surprised?” Káta asked with a faint smile.

Loki rolled his eyes, catching the teasing note in her tone. “Generally most demigoddesses aren’t half dryad,” he replied, resisting the urge to stick his tongue out at her, “it’s more than slightly unusual.”

“Well, there’s nothing wrong with unusual,” Káta said with a gently amused smile, flicking a wet strand of hair over her shoulder as she gazed up at her apple tree.

Loki shook his head. “No, there isn’t,” he agreed musingly, gazing at Káta speculatively.

Oblivious of Loki’s sudden scrutiny Káta continued, her thoughts suddenly in a very different place. “I feel closer to him out here – in the forest. I don’t know what happens to the souls of dryads when they die, but I feel like he’s still somewhere here, watching over me. …in Álfheimr, in Asgard; he’s always here…he’s always with me.”

“He’s dead?” Loki asked, unable to withhold his astonishment.

Káta nodded with a faint smile.

“And this tree..?”

“Is one of my mother’s,” Káta replied, gazing up towards the glowing fruit above them. “She gave me the seed before I left. This will be the twelfth apple to fruit since I planted it.”

Loki frowned. “Where are all the rest?”

Káta laughed softly. “Ever curious,” she murmured, drawing away, and gliding across the well and over to the edge, walking dripping onto the bank. Loki was hard pressed to avert his eyes from where the thin and now transparent fabric of her shift clung to her form, and hurriedly waved a hand at her, sending a warm gust of seiðr blowing through the material and drying it in an instant.

Káta jumped a little at the sensation, but turned with an amused grin and a raised eyebrow towards the still pink cheeked prince as he emerged from the pool looking none too appropriate for polite society either.

Loki scowled wetly at the smirk that was still playing around the corner of Káta’s mouth even as she slipped back into her dress, drying himself the same way, and pulling his trousers back on.

“Come on grumpy face,” she teased after he emerged from his shirt, his hair tousled and his expression still deeply unimpressed by her amusement, pulling him over to where she had left her saddlebags at the foot of a tree. From the bulging side, she extracted a box of some sort wrapped in a cloth, and as Káta undid the bindings, the material slipped off to reveal a modestly sized clothes chest.

Loki cocked his head in bemused interest as Káta scooped it up in her arms, and brought it over into a grassy puddle of sunlight, sitting down with it in her lap.

“It’s nothing like mother’s eski, but it serves my purposes,” she said as Loki folded himself down before her, and she opened the lid to reveal a gleaming cache of the golden apples.

Their combined light flooded out, gilding Loki as his eyes widened. If he had not already been sitting down, he would have fallen backwards from the intoxicating strength of the scent, which was tenfold that which laced Káta’s own skin.

“They’re beautiful, aren’t they?” Káta said with a smile, watching Loki’s still dumbfounded expression before she gazed back at the fruit. “So many desire them.”

Loki’s gaze flickered between the apples and Káta, so similar and yet so different, and he knew which he would rather have. “I can think of at least one thing more beautiful,” he replied with diffident insouciance, his eyes back on the apples.

Káta’s brows raised in question as she glanced at him, but Loki met her gaze and only smiled.

“That would be telling.”

Káta rolled her eyes, closing the chest and setting it to one side. “Playing a game, are we?” She asked.

Loki’s smile widened into a grin, and he tilted his head from side to side noncommittally. “Perhaps.”

Káta laughed, the frustrated exasperation in her eyes eclipsed by mischievousness as she leapt at him, pushing him backwards, the pair of them laughing as they rolled along through the grass, furiously trying to tickle each other as they fought to stay on top.

 

“Does Bragi know of you?” Loki asked when their tickle fight had finally finished, Loki coming out as the victor after some underhanded use of seiðr which had earned him a gentle thump in the gut from Káta after she had recovered her breath.

Káta shook her head, sitting up and fluffing a few strands of grass from her hair. “I am my mother’s secret.”

“Then why are you in Asgard?” He asked, frowning. “It makes no sense to bring you here.”

Káta shrugged. “I don’t know. I just know that I need to be in Asgard. Mother wouldn’t tell me anything more.”

“I can find out for you,” Loki offered.

Káta shook her head firmly. “No,” she said gently, “if I need to know, I’ll find out…eventually. But thank you.”

Loki nodded slightly. “So you have to stay a secret,” he said contemplatively, half speaking to himself.

Káta nodded. “I should like to see Bragi, though,” she said, a hint of wistfulness colouring her tone, “he might be a reflection of my father.”

Loki gazed at her, drawn from his contemplation, his eyes thoughtful. “Come,” he said softly, standing and putting out his hand to help Káta to her feet.

Bemused and curious, Káta followed Loki across the clearing and over to the well. He stopped on the bank by the edge, and passed his hand in a circular motion through the air before him, palm down.

A soft light followed the trajectory of his gesture, tracing itself in the surface of the water, and filling in, so that within moments a faintly rippling oval of silvery light was shining out of the well, in the centre of which was the long bearded countenance of the God of Wisdom, his expression fixed in a pensive frown.

Káta leant forwards with a soft gasp of awe at the seiðr, her eyes fixed on the face of her mother’s husband. “Is this actually him?” She asked softly as the frown on Bragi’s face relaxed and he began mutely mouthing words.

Loki shook his head. “It’s a memory of mine from the last meeting at Glaðsheimr.”

Káta nodded slightly, her lips still parted in faint wonder as she scanned Bragi’s face, her eyes lingering on the chaplet of beech and ash leaves that encircled his brow, and his wise, brown eyes.

“He is a good person,” Loki commented, which, coming from him, was high praise indeed, “an excellent skáld, as you might expect, and like you he does not suffer fools gladly and has a partiality for the harp.”

Káta smiled, amused by the similarities between them, knowing that Loki would not simply lie for her benefit about such a matter. Despite seeing the god, however, she still did not know whether Bragi resembled her father in any way; it was something she could not simply guess.

 

A few days later Loki accompanied Káta up to the library, transporting the pair of the across the city using his seiðr. They were laughing as they entered, but stopped abruptly at the sight of Fróði standing before them, having been too immersed in a teasing debate about what Loki called Káta’s questionable taste for love stories to think about the fact that they would run into the head librarian.

Fróði eyed them shrewdly for a moment, and Káta’s cheeks flamed with guilt for forgetting the old god yet again. Loki had some sort of all enthralling quality about his presence and mind that utterly sucked her in, shedding her awareness of all else that remained beyond them, and much as it meant she kept falling with increasing regularity into the awkward situations created by her absences, she had no desire to give it up. He was endlessly fascinating, like a book that never ended, but simply went on and on, interweaving complexity and intrigue in layer upon layer in a dizzying spiral that she was sliding down with wholehearted eagerness. She wanted to keep following the helix of him and his story, but the heat in her cheeks reminded her that there was still life beyond unwinding and discovering the Trickster God, and that she had to control her interest for him.

Loki’s mind was racing; he had never yet mentioned Káta to Fróði, and for the first time he wondered whether she had ever mentioned him to the old librarian. Inexplicable awkwardness began to pervade his body, and he held his tongue, waiting to see what Fróði would say.

Fróði was working hard not to smile. He had been waiting and wondering when it was that Loki and Káta would finally come to the library together, and his patience had been severely tested. Loki never mentioned Káta when he now came to the library, and his visits were of a much shorter duration than before, his distracted impatience to be elsewhere poorly concealed, although there were times when Fróði would come across the young god sitting in his alcove, holding a book that he had forgotten to read, his eyes unfocussed on his surroundings, and a slight smile on his face as he lived in happy memories.

His suspicions that Loki’s mind was dwelling on Káta had only been confirmed in her visits to the library, during which Káta would talk endlessly about Loki if he gave her the chance. As a result, Fróði was far from in the dark about what they had been doing, and Loki’s gradual progress out of his internal darkness, and his curiosity about how long it would take for them to finally appear together had grown.

The stories that Káta told eased the anxiety that had settled in his heart, for Fróði was convinced that Loki had been nearing something dangerous before he had intervened, but now something akin to delight had begun the flower there instead.

Loki and Káta were in love.

It was as transparent for him to see as it was impossible for them to realise. Káta had developed a tendency to unstintingly speak about the young god, giving very little real information, and instead a wealth of tiny observations and flutterings of gentle emotions that Fróði had begun to see expressed in Loki’s behaviour.

Now as they stood before him, their obliviousness to the fact at such odds with the unconscious affection they exuded for each other, their eyes watching him with near identical anxiety, Fróði could restrain his smile no longer.

“So, who wanted to borrow a book?” He asked.

Relief flooded Loki and Káta’s expressions, their inner tension unwinding, and Loki smiled a little sheepishly, glancing towards Káta in mute indication.

 

After that Loki and Káta spent increasing amounts of time in the library together. Sometimes they read in Loki’s alcove, content to be immersed in separate worlds and sharing their silent companionship, for a third chair had been added for Káta alone, and Fróði often joined them for a brief chat. Loki developed a habit of seeing whether he could use his seiðr to switch Káta’s book for another one without her noticing, the trick forcing him to hone his control to an extent he had never yet tried, for Káta could often feel the moment when she would briefly be holding nothing as her book vanished and the new one appeared.

Other times they wandered alone together through the shelves, quietly talking or recommending books to each other, Káta trying her utmost to revise Loki’s opinion of love and love stories – a matter in which she had run into an unyielding dead end, for although he no longer bitterly condemned them, he still ridiculed the idea of love, and refused to read any more stories, no matter how much she wheedled and coaxed.

Occasionally, Fróði would invite them into his private chambers as he had done with Káta when he first asked her to consider helping Loki, where they would talk and laugh, or else debate topics, with Berghildr sometimes making an appearance. At such times the keeper god and his wife were hard put to keep themselves from smiling, and there were several near misses when Loki and Káta had become so absorbed in each other that Fróði had smiled wide enough that his teeth began to fall out.

It was something of a relief for Loki that he could now spend time with Káta and Fróði in the library. He had wanted it ever since he had first seen Káta tricking Kvasir; to bring together the two people that he was now closest with in his place of safety. Sharing the secrets of the library with Káta was not all that he wanted, however; he wanted to share more, to give her more. She had shown him her treasures and secrets, and for the first time, Loki felt himself wanting to share his.

 

“Káta?”

Káta turned her head sideways to look at Loki. They were lying in the long grass of the well’s clearing, having started out by watching the clouds and trying to find shapes and things amongst them, but eventually falling into a companionable silence. “Yes?”

Loki was still gazing up at the sky, the white drifts of the clouds reflected in his eyes. He sat up suddenly, turning and resting an arm on his upright knee, the other with the hand curled in the grass between them, and Káta rolled over onto her side, the better to watch him, curious. “It’s my turn to show you things,” he said lowly, his eyes alive with an excitement that belied the softness of his tone.

He extended his hand, a wide smile curving across his face. Káta felt her face mirroring his own as she lifted her hand and placed it in Loki’s.

An instant later they were standing in a marketplace within Asgard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *breathes out*  
> So it took a bit longer than usual to get this to you guys - ran into some unexpected difficulties with what I had planned for the plot of the chapter, and then got stuck in a veritable thicket of university assignments. But what would life be without complications XP  
> Anyway; the chapter.  
> SOMEONE HAS FINALLY SAID IT! IT'S OFFICIAL. THEY'RE IN LOVE. HANG OUT THE FLAGS, PARTY IN THE STREETS PEOPLE!  
> UNNNNNNNNNGGGGGGGGGGG Essentially; in one way, Loki is so very ready for love, and in another, he's nowhere NEAR ready. And it hurts. There'll be more on that in a later chapter (yay for hack-at-your-heart feels). My only consolation for you is that they'll be mixed up with a tonne of happy feels...which may or may not balance them out. We'll see.  
> Also, just to address one point - please don't get excited and think that they're going to kiss soon. I'm evil like that, and they're not. Not because I'm evil, but because no matter how much it seems that Loki is ready, he really isn't. Not yet. But never fear, I shall compensate for this lack of lip-locking; but I shan't tell you how ;)
> 
> Oh, and; 'skald' is the Norse word for poet.
> 
>  
> 
> Please give Kudos and/or comment :) Tell me what you like or don’t like :)  
> Also, if you like this story, or any of my other ones, and you want access to sneak previews on chapters that I'm working on, Like my Facebook page, or Follow my Twitter :)  
> https://www.facebook.com/josephinetomkinsauthor  
> https://twitter.com/jtomkinsauthor


	27. Asgard and Children

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Káta showcases a somewhat unexpected talent, and Loki reveals a little of his softer side with the children of Asgard, as well as a dark memory that haunts him from his past.

Káta jumped a little at the sudden wave of bustling sound that engulfed her, and Loki’s hand, which still held hers, tightened a little, reassuringly.

“I know you don’t like cities,” he said softly, his eyes gazing earnestly into hers as his cool breath brushed across her neck, and for the first time Káta realised with a head-spinning thrill just how close they were standing, almost body to body, “but let me show you my city. Let me show you what the others never see.”

She glanced over her shoulder, around at the busy commotion of people, the market they were in unfamiliar to her, and then back up at Loki. It was true that she was not particularly fond of cities, even though Asgard was the only one she had ever been to, despite how much she enjoyed the dizzying wealth of new experiences they provided, and the exciting flurry and richness of the marketplaces; sometimes it could all just be too much, too hectic and too crowded.

Tentatively, Káta met Loki’s patient eyes, and nodded, smiling.

A delighted smile spread across Loki’s features, and his grip on her hand tightened as he turned to lead her away from the street corner they had been standing on, and off down a narrow street.

“You’ll love it,” he said, turning to glance at her over his shoulder, a suddenly boyish smile on his face that Káta had never seen before, “I promise.”

Loki’s sudden glee was infectious, and Káta couldn’t help but laugh as he grinned at her, suddenly picking up speed. She skipped a few steps, and then joined him in running, their hands still interlinked as Loki darted between the throng of people, dodging this way and that as he weaved them effortlessly through the crush, leading her through.

“Loki!” Káta called, an anxious thought rising in her mind as a group of dvergar walked past them, carrying a huge crate of freshly mined gemstones as large as grapefruits.

He responded so quickly she didn’t quite have time to register the movement as he turned back to face her, slowing and twirling her in under his arm, holding her against his chest, and spinning them both with a rapid sequence of intricate footwork under a nearby arch and out of the flow of traffic.

“Yes? Are you all right?” His arm was still wrapped around her back, and the arch was so small that they remained pressed together, each of them with their backs against a cool pillar of stone.

Káta nodded, inexplicably breathless, and smiled to reassure the concern in his eyes. “I’m fine, but,” she frowned, “won’t people recognise you?”

Loki’s expression cleared and he laughed gently, shaking his head. “No; not here. This market is near the Gate of Marmora. Not many of the Æsir come down here; if they’re going to travel they just take the Bifröst. It’s only traders and people from the other worlds that come through the Sea Gate.” He smiled gently at her. “Ready to continue?”

Káta glanced out into the hubbub of colour and chatter, feeling a little of the excitement of the marketplace seeping into her bones, and then grinned, nodding.

 

Their eventual destination turned out to be a tiny garden. They had to work their way through a network of countless winding narrow streets, under arches and through marketplaces, and finally up a series of curving steps, but eventually it all opened out into a small contained courtyard. The buildings that surrounded them on all sides rose straight up so that there was just a square of bright blue sky above, and the knotwork carved into their cream stone served as a trellis for several enterprising vines and climbers, the flowers of which filled the air with their sweet fragrance.

A knotted beech tree took up the corner opposite the stairs, its thick trunk wound with ivy, and its knobbly network of roots covered in a carpet of tiny blue flowers which extended a little out over the tesserae patterns of the stones that paved the ground.

“I found this place when I was a child,” Loki said, his boyish smile back again as his eyes flickered between Káta and the garden, alive with the excitement of sharing.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

Loki and Káta whipped around, jumping in surprise at the unfamiliar voice. An ancient old man, so bent over with age that his long white beard reached his knees, was slowly making his way up the last of the steps, his rheumy eyes kindly as he took in the arrested Trickster God and Káta.

Káta instantly hurried over to help him up the last of the steps, and settled him down on a nearby bench.

“Thank you, my dear.” He said warmly, although his voice shook with age.

Káta smiled. “It _is_ beautiful,” she replied, turning back to take in the garden once more.

“Mmm,” the old man said, shaking his head, “such a shame.”

Loki, who had been standing rigid with shock at the sudden interruption, frowned. “What do you mean, ‘a shame’?” He asked, his voice hard.

The old man ignored Loki’s tone, and lifted a shaking hand to point at the trunk of the beech tree. “The ivy; it’s strangling the tree. It’s too thick for us to cut through, so eventually the beech will die. Such a pity.”

Káta glanced consideringly at the ivy. “I might be able to do something about that,” she murmured, crossing slowly over to the tree and ducking under its low hanging canopy. She picked her way carefully through the flower adorned roots before she came to a stop before the ivy-covered trunk.

Loki watched in open curiosity, ignoring the old man who also seemed intrigued, and Káta closed her eyes, her hands outstretched before her, just above the ivy.

At first it seemed that Káta was not doing anything, but then a low humming began to make its way to the ears of Loki and the old man, the vibration of it moving through the ground and up into the centre of their bodies through the soles of their feet so that they not only heard it, but felt it deep within them as well; a subterranean, primeval thrum.

There was no doubt that Káta was the origin of the sound, and soon slow, heavy pulses began to thud through them in an unhurried beat that Loki was dimly aware of being the heartbeat of the earth; ancient and steady.

Káta’s humming and the beat that it seemed to have summoned combined into a hypnotic rhythm that dispelled all thoughts from Loki’s mind, filling him instead with a patient, heavy awareness of endlessly continued existence, and a deeply buried sedate contentment. Through the haze, however, he was dimly aware of the ivy placidly relaxing its hold around the trunk of the beech, when before it had been fiercely recalcitrant, and of the beech releasing a deep sigh of relief.

Then the beat began to fade away, returning to obscurity although Loki remained in no doubt that it was still there for those who could hear it, unwearyingly pulsing, and Káta’s humming stopped.

Káta came out from under the shade of the beech, which seemed to Loki to somehow be inexplicably perkier than it had been before, and came back to stand with Loki.

“Ivies are always stubborn,” she said, smiling at Loki who retained a dumbfounded expression. “They require a lot of force before they eventually give up and do as they’re told, after that you can do anything with them.”

“You’re one of the hamadryads,” the old man whispered in astonishment; “you can commune with plants.”

Káta and Loki frowned in confusion, gazing at him in question.

“The last time I saw anyone do that, it was the hamadryad who came to do this for us,” the old man explained, staggering to his feet and shuffling over to the beech, pointing at the roots.

Káta and Loki followed him over, and gazed down. It was hard to see from a distance because of the flowers, but up close the confusion of the roots was revealed to be a carefully constructed circular knotwork design.

“She did the same as you; she could tap into the heartbeat of the earth and bend plants to her will.”

“Do you know where she is?” Káta asked eagerly, staring at the old man.

He shook his head. “No. Her tree could be cut down by now for all I know,” he said apologetically. He reached out and wrung Káta’s hands, smiling. “Thank you for this. Thank you.”

 

Loki’s knowledge of the nooks of Asgard seemed limitless. In the coming days he took Káta all over the city into the most obscure and out of the way places imaginable – to stalls that sold strange trinkets and curios from the other worlds, and a thousand gardens that no one seemed to know the existence of, he showed her beautifully decorated buildings, and found wandering groups of minstrels and sweetly voiced singers for them to listen to, and took her to a myriad of tiny food stalls and places to eat strange delicacies and deliciously simple snacks.

To her pleasant surprise, Káta discovered that Loki got on surprisingly well with the children of Asgard. He tended to mostly associate with various street urchins, gangs of which would rush to him the moment they saw him, plying him with questions and requests, their hands feeling in his pockets for sweets that she had never known him to carry but which would always materialise with impossible abundance. Káta would watch amused and astonished as Loki let himself be pulled and tugged about, dragged hither and thither by the commandeering children, manipulated and made a pawn in their games.

He seemed particularly good with the quieter children, never failing to spot those that hung back from the group, going over to them and folding down onto one knee so that he was level with them, having a quiet word until they began to shyly smile, and producing a special little something just for them using his seiðr, before taking their hand and leading them gently into the boisterous play of the throng.

After he introduced her the children included Káta in their play, although they were a little more gentle with her than they were with Loki, who they would fearlessly leap upon and drag to the ground if the game so required, pinning him down beneath the mountain of their tiny bodies as he laughed out faint protests. Káta was often content to sit on the edge with some of the younger or more retiring children; tickling and bouncing the toddlers on her lap as they pulled and played with her hair, whilst she played finger games with the older ones, teaching them how to make flower chains and other such deft craftwork, laughing and watching Loki and the other children’s antics, and Loki’s misfortune when the children ganged up on him.

 

There was one day when they were at a fountain that seemed to be a favourite of Loki’s. They had spent the day idly wandering through the more deserted streets of Asgard, and were closer to the tor of Valhalla than usual, where the buildings were larger and more palatial, and encountering demigods and goddesses was more common.

The fountain was very simple, but intricately designed, and set in the centre of a spacious square, one side of which was occupied with a group of well-dressed children playing a ball game. Loki had bought Káta an apple-sized gold ball from a reticent dvergr in the market, explaining that despite the filigreed gold exterior and the white enamelled clay ball within, it was hollow and would float in water.

They sat together on the side of the fountain, Káta leaning over the edge as she anxiously held the ball above the water, not quite sure that Loki could be correct given how heavy the ball was.

“Go on, put it in,” Loki chided gently, laughing at Káta’s apprehensive expression.

Káta shot him a frowning pout, but finally let the ball slip from her fingers. It fell with a loud splosh, despite the fact that it had almost been in the water when Káta had let it go, and sank a good distance towards the bottom before bobbing back up again.

Loki’s smile widened into a grin as Káta let out a slight squeak of surprised delight. “Told you,” he said with a hint of smug satisfaction.

Káta stopped smiling to pout, and then laughed mischievously as she gave him a gentle thump in the side, taking Loki by surprise so that he wobbled and came dangerously close to falling in.

Loki steadied himself with a frown that was ruined by the smile that quickly followed it, and they went back to watching the merrily bobbing ball. “Watch,” Loki made to lean over the water then checked himself, turning to give Káta a stern look, “and don’t push me in.”

Káta fought to hide the impish grin of temptation that begun to rise to her face, biting on her lips as a giggle escaped.

“ _Promise_ ,” Loki said sternly.

Káta pulled in a deep breath to quell her giggles, and then nodded.

Loki shot her a still somewhat disbelieving look, but leant out over the water again, reaching for the ball and fitting the tip of his index finger between the filigree to flick the enamelled clay ball inside.

The ball spun within its net of gold, bobbing as it did so, and began to sing.

“There are silver bells inside,” Loki said in answer to Káta’s astonished expression. “But something _must_ be done about that colour,” he murmured.

With a flick of his fingers, the white enamel coating flushed forest green.

“Much better,” he said softly, smiling.

“Big head,” Káta muttered, grinning.

“Takes one to know one,” Loki replied smoothly.

Káta’s face snapped up from the ball, her eyes widening with caricaturised offence and astonishment. “Well in that case you don’t have a big head at all, you’re positively humble,” she said, ruining her sincerity as she began to laugh.

“How good of you to notice,” Loki murmured demurely.

Káta shot him a disbelieving sideways glance, and then rolled her eyes, going back to the bobbing ball. “You are humble, though,” she said gently after a few moments.

Loki tilted his head to one side, his eyebrows quirked in gentle amusement. “What? Not big headed at all?”

Káta sat back from the water once more, rolling her eyes at his ruining her attempt at earnestness. “Oh no, you’re still a big head, and a massive show off,” she replied, grinning at Loki’s suddenly put out expression, “but I like that.”

Loki snorted imperceptibly, the faintest of smiles on his lips as he glanced away across the square. “Well, it’s good to know that I have _some_ redeeming qualities at least.”

Káta frowned at the words, sensing the trace of bitterness behind them, and scooped up the ball from the water. “ _Loki_ …” she began, not quite sure how she was going to phrase the concerns lurking in her mind without upsetting him, stopping as Loki flinched sharply.

She froze, anxiety and concern pooling in her gut; if Loki exploded now, in the square, word of it was sure to make its way back to the Allfather, and she didn’t want to think just how great an undoing his involvement now would cause.

“Loki?” She asked tentatively.

But Loki was not listening to her; he didn’t even seem to have heard her say his name. His eyes were fixed on the group of children across the square, and although he did not blink, his eyelids trembled.

Káta followed the line of his gaze, confused as to how a simple game of piggy in the middle could set off such a reaction in him, her concern rising as she realised that he wasn’t breathing. “Loki,” she said softly, reaching out to put a hand on his arm.

His whole body was rigid, his muscles straining with the tension beneath her hand, but at her touch something in him seemed to release, and he took in a deep, shuddering breath.

“Loki?”

He shook his head slightly, closing his eyes. “I can’t,” he muttered. “Don’t ask. Don’t.”

Káta nodded, sliding closer to him and taking his hand in hers, lifting it to her shoulder and curling both hers arms around his. “It’s ok,” she murmured. “I understand.” It was not the first time she had encountered a matter that Loki simply couldn’t face; if being there with him was all he could bear, then she would not push him, not if he truly couldn’t handle facing that part of his past.

Loki’s grip on her hand where their fingers interlaced tightened enough that their hands shook, and he might have split her knuckles but for the immense amount of control he was still exerting over himself. “You _can’t_ ,” he whispered brokenly.

“Then help me to.”

There was a long silence. Káta waited patiently, still holding Loki’s hand to her, her thumb rubbing gently over his.

Eventually, the fierceness of his grip eased, and a long rough breath juddered out from him.

“That boy,” he breathed, “that boy used to be me… _Is_ me.”

Káta did not need any further identification than that as she glanced over to the children. Amongst the laughing group there was one child not enjoying the game, and he was the one stuck in the middle. The others jeered as he struggled and leapt for the ball that they sent sailing over his head, laughing when he stumbled, and sorrow welled up in Káta’s heart. Her grip on Loki’s hand tightened, and he squeezed hers back.

Loki did not seem to be able to watch the children any more, not since he had first relinquished his gaze, and instead stared blindly at his knees, his words hoarse and raw when he spoke. “It used to hurt so much…and choosing not feel was the only option – but it didn’t always work. It doesn’t always work. And I had no other way to let the pain out – I-” He stopped as abruptly as though his voice had disappeared, leaning forwards as though he had taken a punishing blow to the stomach and sagging against her with an airless groan.

“Oh, Loki,” Káta murmured, already guessing what it was that he had been about to say.

Loki slowly untangled his arm from hers, and pulled off the metal bands that held his sleeve down, pushing the fabric up with great difficulty.

Healed by magic there was nothing to see, but for Káta each line and mark was as visible as though they had just been inflicted, and she couldn’t help her initial sob-like gasp of dismay. A cross hatching network of scars of varying depths covered Loki’s forearm, deepening and increasing in number at his wrist and the crook of his elbow so that none of his skin remained unmarked. Worst of all were the four long lines that ran the length of his arm from wrist to elbow. They ran deep with a horror-inducing decisiveness, the scars thick red welts that she knew were nothing to the flood of crimson they would have released when open.

“I wasn’t old enough or strong enough to break my bones against the wall,” he whispered, the words coming out on a dry breath.

“And these?” Káta asked tentatively, running the tips of her fingers along the ridges where she could see them, tracing the trail of his veins.

Loki knew which cuts she was talking about. “I nearly died,” he said unemotionally.

Káta’s eyes widened as she turned to gaze at him, her expression horrified.

“It was kept tightly under wraps,” he continued, “a handmaiden found me in a pool of my own blood before I could go… I wanted to go. I had nothing to stay for. I had no one. Only Thor, and he…he…” Loki shook his head almost imperceptibly. “He is him. He had friends. I was an island…cut off but surrounded.” He shook his head. “There was no one…I had no one that I could tell. No one to even talk to.”

Káta nodded sadly, running her hands soothingly over the inside of Loki’s arm, rubbing away the echoes of his scars. “You have me now,” she murmured gently, resting her head against his shoulder as she continued to rub. “You have me.”

Loki nodded a little; some of the light that had drained from his eyes returning as he tentatively rested his cheek against Káta’s hair. “Yes…” he murmured, breathing deeply. “I have you. I can…talk…to you. With you.”

Káta hummed in gentle assent. “I’ll always be here. You can always be honest with me, Loki. Always.”

Loki nodded falteringly. He knew that. He’d always know that, somehow. That he could be honest with her. “This was where Auðun and I used to meet…” He murmured. “I…it’s a difficult place to be; there are too many memories…all good and gone…they don’t ever leave. And then for…for _that_ to happen. Here. I…” Loki lifted his head from hers, shaking it.

Káta glanced over to where the children had been, and realised they had the square to themselves. “They’ve gone.”

Loki nodded soberly, standing and giving her his hand. “Come; there are better things to feel than this.”

Káta stood with his aid, wrapping his gift in the silk square it had come in and tying the ends to make a makeshift bag that she fastened to her girdle. Loki began to lead the way down a street in the general direction of Mærsalr.

 

It was as they were passing a side street that Káta stopped, frowning. The gentle sound of stifled sobs came easily enough to her ears on the still air, and she was even more grateful than usual of the peaceful silence that pervaded the richer areas of the city in contrast to the clamour of the marketplaces.

“Loki,” she murmured softly, “look.”

Loki, who had been watching her with faint curiosity, followed the direction of her finger, his eyes alighting on the crouched figure of a boy, wedged in a gap between two walls.

Káta barely had time to look back at Loki before he had brushed past her, and gone to crouch before the boy.

“Are you stuck?” Loki asked softly as Káta came to kneel by his side.

The boy looked up, and they were able to see that he was the one that the other children had been taunting in the square earlier. His knees were cut, and his clothing had a few tears in some places. He nodded, pushing his tears from his face as he gazed between Loki and Káta, anxiety in them. “They put me here,” he choked between hiccupping sobs. He struggled to free himself again, but Káta put her hands out, stilling him as Loki surveyed the situation.

“Hush, now; hush,” she said soothingly. “Don’t move; you’ll only hurt yourself more. We’ll get you out; you’ll see. Here,” she tore off a corner of her sleeve and wiped the tears from the boy’s face. She turned to glance at Loki, her expression anxious, hoping he would be able to do something.

Loki met her gaze with a terse nod, rising from his crouch to stand with his feet apart as he lifted his hands.

Káta turned quickly back to the boy, ready to pull him out. She heard Loki take in a long, deep breath, and then heard a faint grating of stone as she saw the two walls slowly inch apart.

The moment there was enough space, she darted forwards, pulling the boy out of the gap, and setting him safely before her, hearing rather than seeing the grinding thud as Loki let the walls fall back into place.

“Let’s get you fixed up then,” Loki muttered, kneeling by Káta’s side once more as he regarded the boy’s cut knees and damaged clothes.

The boy had stopped crying, although he still sniffed every now and then, and watched, too full of other emotions to be surprised or scared as Loki healed his knees and fixed his clothes.

“All good,” Loki rocked back on his heels, casting a critical eye over the boy, checking if he had missed anything.

“You’re Loki.”

Káta glanced anxiously towards Loki for a moment as she helped the boy to his feet, not sure how the situation would pan out.

Loki nodded, still kneeling and at eye level with the boy. “That I am.”

“You helped me.” The boy said, again with the same slightly curious tone.

Loki nodded again. “Yes.”

“Thank you.”

Loki blinked, and seemed quite unable to think of a reply until Káta gently nudged him in the side. “You’re welcome.” The words came out gruff and unused, and Káta smiled to herself.

“Can you get home all right?” She asked the boy as she and Loki stood, walking with him out of the street.

The boy looked up and down the main street nervously. “Yes, but…” He glanced up at them anxiously, despite the fact that none of the other children were in sight.

“We’ll take you.” Káta replied. The boy smiled.

 

They had not been walking long, the boy having subsided into a somewhat awed silence as he gazed up at Loki, when a shrill voice rang out.

“Gøðingr? Gøðingr! Get away from him at once! At once, do you hear me?” The woman from whom the commands were issuing rushed towards them, but stopped when several paces away, appearing too fearful to approach any further.

“Mother, no; it’s fine!” The boy attempted to protest. “They helped me.”

Káta frowned in confusion, half aware of the fact that Loki was now standing rigid beside her; before everything was explained as the woman next opened her mouth.

“No excuses! Get over here! That’s… _Loki_.” She fairly hissed his name, her eyes flickering up from her son to briefly gaze at Loki, the expression in them changing from parental anger to fearful loathing.

Gøðingr turned to give Loki and Káta a sorrowful, apologetic look, but obeyed the force of his mother, walking over to her only to be snatched into her arms the moment he was within reach.

Káta felt for Loki’s hand as Gøðingr was led away by his mother, who shot a fearful parting glance over her shoulder towards them. She had noticed Loki’s all but imperceptible flinch when the woman had hissed his name, knowing he had felt it like a whiplash across the face, and she squeezed his hand consolingly.

Loki’s shock at the fact that Káta was holding his hand was so profound that it jolted him out of the troubles of his thoughts. He had not noticed when she had at the fountain earlier, too submerged in deep running memories to realise, but now he was aware of it. It felt very…right.

He turned to Káta, a very faint wry smile on his lips, although a glimmer of pain remained in his eyes. “Some things never change, I suppose.” He murmured.

Káta raised a gently disagreeing eyebrow, her gaze flickering between the two of them. “Some things do.”

Loki’s smile widened at that, and he nodded with a silent exhalation of laughter. “Yes, some things do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'VE FINALLY MANAGED TO UPLOAD THIS! So it's been written for quite a while and I've been trying to find the time to upload this chapter all week, and now I've finally managed it! :D  
> Just a hint: that memory of Loki's is currently important for later on down the track (very important).  
> And as for that memory...I am not ashamed to admit that I was crying heavily while I wrote this (although that could be due to my prior knowledge of what happens later on). BUT WOO FOR LOKI BEING ABLE TO TALK ABOUT HIS ISSUES NOW!!! :D And also Loki giving gifts and being adorable with children AL;KDJFALSDFJ :3  
> So yes. Loki and Káta are in love, but don't realise it. This is because essentially, what Loki feels for Káta doesn't fit in with his understanding and definition of love, so he can't really figure out what it is that he feels for her, just that it is much more than friendship. Káta is subconsciously aware that she loves Loki but she's yet to consciously realise it simply because she's just too caught up in the experience of it to take a step back and realise, and also she's never been in love before.  
> Also, just a note: the next chapter is currently being somewhat delayed by two things - first, final exams and major assessments are looming and I really should attend to them; second, we go to Loki's halls (which are neither named nor even exist in the actual poetry of the mythology) which get named, and have resulted in my learning how to read and write Old Norse (the Icelandic branch) in order to better understand the grammatical conventions so I can actually give his halls a legitimate name.
> 
> Gøðingr literally means "good"
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it :D
> 
>  
> 
> Please give Kudos and/or comment :) Tell me what you like or don’t like :)  
> Also, if you like this story, or any of my other ones, and you want access to sneak previews on chapters that I'm working on, Like my Facebook page, or Follow my Twitter :)  
> https://www.facebook.com/josephinetomkinsauthor  
> https://twitter.com/jtomkinsauthor


	28. Valhalla

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki brings Káta into Valhalla via a rather unconventional route (but what else would you expect from the God of Mischief), and shows her his Halls.

Loki lay with his head in Káta’s lap, drowsing as she read to him. He had finally relented and no longer objected to her reading whatever she chose to him, even love stories, and the result was that they were now in the clearing by her well; their new reading spot.

He wasn’t exactly sure where his new found tolerance for the matter had come from, but the subject did not irk him as it had once done. Perhaps it was only because it was Káta reading that he could abide to hear such things, for Loki had quickly discovered that he was willing to go along with any excuse to hear her read. It was calming, and he never failed to enjoy it.

“‘Glæggi sat and thought carefully. He knew that unless he could devise a way to enter Borgunna’s father’s castle, and get around the enchantments that protected it, he would never be able to rescue her; and that was something he could not live with. He would rather die than live his life apart from Borgunna.’”

Loki snorted softly, and Káta paused, closing the book on one finger so she could look down into his face, frowning.

Loki recoiled slightly as the shade from the open book disappeared, scrunching his eyes, and turning his face away from the sun and towards Káta as he shielded his eyes with one hand, looking up at her in question.

Upon catching sight of her expression, however, his own reformed into one of contrition.

“How did _you_ do it?” Káta asked, still frowning deeply.

Confused, Loki sat up. “Do what?”

“Get out of Valhalla. When you were a child. They _can’t_ have just let you wander out, and the halls are protected with the Allfather’s seiðr.”

Loki quirked an eyebrow in bemused interest. “I’ll show you, if you like.”

 

After taking care of the book, Loki took Káta’s hand, and when she next looked around they were standing in the very centre of Asgard, the great tor of Valhalla looming above them; league upon league of a mountain’s stone heart rising up towards the dome of the sky.

Káta gazed about, and then at the tor before them, and back at Loki who was smiling faintly, then back to the tor.

“You climbed down this?” She asked, unable to keep the horrified astonishment from her voice.

Loki turned to glance at her, one eyebrow raised.

“But…but you didn’t have any seiðr then.” Káta stammered.

“That is correct.”

Káta stared at the impassive god’s expression, openly appalled. “You were barely older than forty! What if you’d fallen and broken your neck? You would have died from that height!”

Loki shrugged indifferently. “That wasn’t really an issue for me then.” Káta’s face creased with her familiar expression of concern, but Loki brushed it off, grinning widely. “Are you game enough?”

It was Káta’s turn to raise an eyebrow at that. “To make the climb?”

Loki nodded, his smile widening with a challenge as he winked.

A competitive light flickered in Káta’s eyes. “You’re on.”

 

The ascent would have been harrowing for any but the most experienced of climbers – and even they would have thought more than twice about doing it. The tor rose straight up, and although there were handholds and footholds aplenty in the craggy stone, there were some that crumbled on contact, and others slippery with patches of moss and lichen, or covered over with unhelpful tangles of vines with glossy leaves. The higher they went, the stronger the wind became, snapping and tugging and their clothes, and threatening to rip them off the rock face to fall down the empty fathoms of air to the waiting ground below.

It started out enjoyable enough, of course; each of them egging the other on, the ascent coming quickly and easily while their muscles were still fresh, the warmth of the competition between them stoking their energy. As they progressed steadily higher however, they began to lag and move more slowly, choosing their handholds and footholds with greater care, the knowledge that a bad choice could send them plummeting down from an even greater height ever present in their minds.

They were barely quarter of the way up, already at least two leagues above the city, when Káta realised that she could no longer feel her fingers, which were numb with cold and locked in a curled, claw-like grip.

By the time they were halfway their arms had begun to seize up, and their feet had become clumsy lumps of ice in their shoes.

At three quarters, none of the other tors in the city were level or above them, and the muscles in their thighs had begun to lock, unable to extend straight, but instead stuck in a crabbed frog-like position as they continued to inch their way up, their noses dripping with cold and their lips chapped by the wind.

They finally reached the peak just as their muscles had begun to shake, when their fingers had become unreliable, and their whole bodies felt like barely moving blocks of ice wrapped in woefully inadequate clothing.

Loki pulled himself wearily in through the first window they came to, leaning out over the edge and taking the ice-cold hand Káta stretched towards him and hoisting her in.

“W-we ar-are _n-not_ d-d-doing that a-again.” Káta muttered through numb lips, her teeth chattering wildly as they stood in the corridor, shivering together.

Loki nodded. “N-n-n-no; I think o-once is en-enough. C-c-come h-here.” He opened his arms stiffly, and Káta stumbled into them, cuddling gratefully against his chest, trying desperately to garner what little warmth might come from their proximity.

“I c-can’t b-b-believe you d-did th-that climb as a ch-ch-child,” she stuttered into his chest disbelievingly.

“S-shush,” Loki growled slightly. “F-focus on get-getting warm.”

It was a few moments before Loki’s seiðr took effect, and when it did it was the most delicious sensation Káta could have felt at that moment. Slow warmth began seeping into her bones, radiating out from Loki’s palms where they rubbed along her back, driving away the frost that the wind had set into her, and turning her frozen core to a hot pool of liquid warmth. The heat quickly became unbearably hot simply because she had been so cold, but she didn’t want it to stop anyway; it was just too welcome.

“Better?” Loki asked, when at last they were both defrosted, their extremities still tingling with the prickly fight between the cold and heat.

Káta nodded. “Much.” She glanced over her shoulder, peering about at the corridor from within the circle of Loki’s arms.

“Welcome to Valhalla,” he murmured, gazing around at their surroundings with her.

The passage they were in was one of the network of hallways that branched off the main corridor that ringed the Allfather’s halls, which lay in the centre of the palace. From that main corridor the halls of every major god and goddess could be accessed, with all number of gardens, feasting chambers, small sparring grounds, and lesser rooms interspersing them, all connected up with a veritable warren of passageways.

Káta slipped curiously from Loki’s arms, going over to the wall to examine one of the enormous hangings that covered it, running her hands over the cloth and tracing the knotwork carved into the pillar beside it. Loki watched her with patient interest, a faint smile on his lips.

She turned to him, a tiny frown on her face. “It’s not very…godly…is it? It’s rich, but it’s not _godly_.”

Loki’s eyes widened for a moment, and then he burst out laughing.

Mildly affronted Káta drew closer, her usual endearing frowning pout of indignance in place.

“We’re only in a small outer hallway, Káta. Most of the grandeur is saved for the Halls and the main corridor.” He shook his head, still laughing slightly, reaching out to take Káta’s hand and pull her along. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

Mollified, Káta let Loki lead her out of the side passage they had been in, and through a dizzying maze of other hallways that wove in and out of each other like the bands of a knotwork design.

But for her extensive experience in following the most convoluted of pathways devisable by nature, Káta might have lost the route that Loki took, but she followed his every twist and turn as easily as though she had trod the path before.

She had begun to wonder whether they would ever exit the maze of passages, however, when Loki paused by a tapestry that seemed no different to any of the others, and turned to glance over his shoulder at her.

“Valhalla has as many secrets as the gods and goddesses within its walls, all it takes is a person who knows how to figure them out,” he said, smiling faintly.

“Which one? Valhalla, or the gods and goddesses?” Káta asked teasingly.

Loki paused a moment, one eyebrow cocked in faint amusement. “Both.” He turned, and scooped the edge of the tapestry aside to reveal a hidden door with a spiral staircase beyond that led down into the stone of the tor, and the bowels of the palace.

“But of course,” Káta muttered sarcastically in the gloom, “what palace would be complete without secret passages?” Loki chuckled.

 

Eventually they resurfaced, slipping out from a door concealed in a pillar, and into the main corridor. There the grandeur increased a thousand fold. The hangings were thick with gold and silver thread, and studded with beads of metal and precious stones that were half a hundred colours. Towering statues and busts of metal and stone stood by the walls at intervals, interspersed with gleaming and famed weapons, and monolithic tablets covered in painstakingly carved runes. The knotwork of the pillars were inlaid with all forms of precious metal, paint, and gemstones. It all glimmered in the light of the torches that lined the walls at regular intervals, rich and magnificent, and very definitely godly.

Káta paused to take it all in, and Loki watched, smiling at her wide eyed expression.

“It’s all… _huge_.”

Loki laughed softly. “Yes…my father likes to do things in a big way. But this is just the beginning; wait until you see the Hall of Valhalla.” His eyes gleamed with childlike excitement. “Everything is gold; every inch of it. Some of the einherjar once tried to see how thick it was by carving into a wall with their blades, but they couldn’t find any wood beneath; just solid gold that repaired itself when they stopped.” He made to take her hand once more and lead her on, but Káta resisted.

“No.”

Confused, Loki turned to see her standing, her feet planted firmly against the ground, pulling against him. “Káta? What’s –”

“I want to see your halls.”

Loki blinked. Showing his halls to Káta hadn’t occurred to him. They were far from the grandest, and no one had ever asked to see them. No one ever visited him, not if they could help it.

“I want to see _your_ halls, Loki,” Káta repeated, smiling now as she gazed into his faintly nonplussed eyes. “I don’t care about the Allfather’s or anyone else’s. I don’t know them. I want to see yours.”

Something warm unfurled in Loki’s chest. It was edged with a deep sense of gratification and pleasure, but beyond that, whatever the feeling was, it left him feeling simultaneously more at peace and riotously happy than any other emotion he had ever experienced before. He nodded and smiled.

They started walking again, moving around towards the back of Valhalla and passing door after door, Loki unable to speak because of the confused jumble of emotions inside him.

Eventually they stopped outside a large pair of doors, the heavy frame of which was thick with knotwork carvings of serpents; their eyes inlaid with emeralds the size of Káta’s fists that glittered at her over their red gold tongues. Swirling carved air currents surrounded the entwined serpents across the eaves of the door, and flames licked up from the base of the frame.

“What are your halls called?” Káta asked, her eyes flickering over to Loki for a moment.

“They don’t have a name.”

Káta frowned.

“My father never gave them one.”

Káta stared at Loki, appalled. “Why didn’t you name them, then?”

Loki frowned. “Only the Allfather can.”

It became Káta’s turn to frown, and a comment rose to her mind, but she bit her tongue, turning instead to face the doors. She considered them for a moment, then closed her eyes thinking. Then a smile rose to her face. “Well,” she said softly, opening her eyes, “ _I_ name them Hugrsannidir.”

Loki’s eyes widened. “You…can’t do that.”

Káta turned to face him, her brows raised expectantly. “Are you really going to try and tell me that I shouldn’t do something, Loki? You of all people?”

The faint grin playing around Káta’s mouth was enough to jolt Loki out of his appalled astonishment. He smiled, and laughed softly, tilting his head in slight deference to her. After a moment his gaze became speculative. “Why ‘Heart’s Truth’?”

Káta gazed at him with an expression of astonishment that seemed to ask, isn’t it obvious? “You know when people lie, and so you know when people speak the truth. You know what truly lies within their hearts and minds. You are just as much the god of truth as you are the god of lies.”

Loki blinked.

“You’ve never seen it like that, have you?”

He shook his head.

Káta smiled in gentle amusement. “Oh, Loki,” she murmured, shaking her head slightly, “what am I going to do with you?”

“I shall be interested to find out,” he purred, moving forwards to push the great doors open, and led the chuckling Káta into his antechambers.

Once in Loki’s private chambers, Káta halted, her eyes flying in all directions, taking in the curiously austere nature of the room. She hadn’t expected Loki to express himself in the same opulent manner that the rest of the inhabitants of Valhalla seemed to, but the stark contrast between even the corridor and the simplicity of his chambers was powerfully obvious. There were next to no weapons hanging on the walls, and those that were present did not seem to be special or magical in any way, and only one or two very old looking tapestries that felt steeped in long forgotten love, their colours faded by the years. The drapes at the windows and between the rooms softened the cold grey stone of the walls, which was often obscured up to waist height with low bookshelves filled with well-read volumes that Káta longed to investigate.

The primary objects of furniture were a large round table in the room they stood in, and another rectangular one off to the left in another room behind a curtain which seemed to be the busiest of all the rooms – filled with a clutter of maps and charts – and finally, in Loki’s bedroom around a curved wall to the right, and up a few steps, an enormous bed in the centre against the far wall, the wall to the left opening out onto a large balcony, the tiers of which fell away towards a balustrade, and by a large window of which stood Loki’s personal desk.

Several woven rugs and furs covered the cold flags of the floor here and there, but other than that, Loki’s room was largely devoid of ornament.

Káta turned a quietly curious look towards the prince, who was watching her with uncharacteristic nervousness.

He opened his mouth to offer some explanation or justification, but Káta reached out a hand, her fingers hovering before his lips to gently silence him. Loki shut his mouth, and watched as she smiled softly and turned, padding quietly across the chamber they stood in, up the few steps into his main room where his desk and bed stood, walking around the edge of the walls to slowly read the titles of the books on his shelves, the tips of her fingers brushing with an almost loving caress along the spines that made Loki shiver.

His nerves were on fire with an anxiety he had never felt before. Having Káta here, in his rooms, was a more gruelling and disquieting experience that he had ever thought it could be, and yet at the same time, there was something deeply comforting about her presence; as though a missing piece of a puzzle had at long last fallen into place. She completed his rooms somehow, and he knew that it didn’t matter what place he decided to call his own, even if it was in the most remote and desolate location, if she was there, it would be home. Káta made things whole for him.

Ever since she had named his halls, they felt more welcoming and more his own than they ever had before, and her presence in them now only served to heighten the sensation of deep-seated contentment that now permeated him.

Having finished with his bookshelves, Káta crossed to his desk, her fingers running over the scraps of parchment on it, and his various writing implements. An empty metal inkwell stood in one corner of the desk, and Loki watched curiously as she thoughtfully fingered the edge of it, and then looked up towards the arch that led out onto his balcony.

She glanced towards him with a small, quietly radiant smile, and then bounced over and through the arch, down the dais of ledges, moving here and there as she peered at the large flat stones that paved the area.

Loki barely had time to move so he could see her, crouching by a crack between two of the flags, before he heard the faint lilt of her singing an unfamiliar tune, and then she was dancing back in, a small posy of flowers he had never seen before in her hands.

He blinked in astonishment as she moved over to the inkwell, filling it with water from a jug on his desk, and then arranged the flowers in it, smiling.

“We call them Night Stars. They only grow in my mother’s orchards, but with a little coaxing they were willing to make an exception.”

They were tiny, delicate little blossoms, and as Loki moved over to see them better, finding himself standing beside Káta, he could smell the beautiful, heavenly fragrance that came from them. The petals were a shade of midnight blue that was almost black, the centres of their tiny throats speckled with flecks of bright yellow pollen that did indeed look like stars in a night sky.

Loki looked up from the flowers to meet Káta’s direct gaze. She was smiling gently at him, and he could see from the expression in her eyes that she knew exactly the enormity of her gesture and what it meant to him.

He turned away from her back to the flowers, reaching out and delicately plucking the finest blossom from the bunch, its rounded petals perfectly formed and without a single blemish. He let his seiðr flow out and gently encompass the flower, turning it from perishable, living tissue, to a tiny cluster of sculpted blue-black sapphires, and a slender stalk of dazzling emerald, the pollen grains spots of gold truly shining like stars.

Káta let out a soft gasp of wonder at the beauty of the seiðr, her eyes wide, and Loki turned with slow deliberation, reaching up to gently nestle the incomparably priceless flower safely within the strands of the slender plait by her ear that restrained the mane of her hair, his fingertips lingering in her hair and cupping her ear for the most fleeting of breath-taking moments.

“Will you stay?” Loki addressed the question to the space between them. It was a concern that had begun to grow in the back of his mind when Káta had shared her most precious possessions with him, and then had begun to circle his mind ever since he had first spent the night with her on the roof as a little bird. Now, drawn to the forefront of his mind by having her here in his room, it finally slipped out while it had the chance. He didn’t know why, but he didn’t want her to leave Asgard; he didn’t want to be alone again. He looked up into her eyes, able to meet them now that he had asked his question.

“I’ll always stay, Loki.” Káta replied, smiling faintly, and Loki knew with a little rush of ambivalence that for once she had not understood what he had really been talking about. Relief that she hadn’t understood and renewed trepidation about what her answer would be when he finally managed to ask her properly flooded his chest from opposite directions, crashing against each other in an explosion that intensified both emotions as he took a long deep breath, and managed a smile.

“Good.”

 

Later, they sat together in the curve of Loki’s round window, reading.

Káta had gone back out onto the balcony to properly inspect it, and had surprised Loki by gently singing into existence a number of trailing vines spotted with tiny flowers, just as she had with the Night Stars, although these she left unplucked to grow. Loki’s surprise had quickly given way to pleasure as a cloud of butterflies soon appeared, attracted by the scent of the flowers, and the smile he had given her was thanks enough.

After that, Káta had come back inside, and asked Loki to choose his favourite book from amongst his collection. She had been surprised when he had swiftly crossed to the wall above his desk, pressed his palm against the stone so that it slid back to reveal a small hidden compartment, in which several books and a number of other miscellaneous objects were hidden, drawing out one particular volume, and bringing it over to her.

It was a compiled book of children’s fairy tales, and Káta knew from the worn edges on the cover, and the softness of the pages that it was a long loved book that probably dated from Loki’s childhood.

Loki’s entreating expression when she had looked up from the book was explanation enough of what he wanted, so she took a seat on the windowsill with him beside her, and began to read the stories.

To begin with, Loki sat rigidly beside her, experiencing some sort of inner struggle, but as she continued on, he slowly began to relax, until eventually he was dozing, his head on her shoulder, and then eventually curled on his side across her lap.

Káta had seen Loki sleep and drowse many times before, and it was a sight that never failed to make her heart sing. His complete and utter vulnerability and softness had an endearing quality that made her reluctant to ever wake him, and there was a particular tranquillity that his expression assumed when he was asleep that she was yet to see cross his face while he was awake.

 

Eventually, she finished the book, but even then Loki did not wake.

Káta carefully laid the book to one side, and gazed down at the sleeping god in her lap. His hair had fallen across his face in his sleep, the fine dark strands tickling against his skin.

Tentatively, Káta softly brushed them back, gathering them with her fingertips and tucking them back off his face, her fingers skimmed across his cheek and forehead at the temples. She moved with infinite slowness, savouring the moment and the experience. Compelled by some sudden and overwhelming compulsion, she traced the silky dark line of his eyebrow with a finger.

“Are you petting me?” Loki’s voice was a sleepy murmur from her lap, and Káta jumped guiltily with a squeak, her hands flying back so she could see the faint curling of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t stop.”

Káta’s eyes widened at the mumbled request, and she remained where she was, arrested with surprise.

Loki’s eye cracked open at her silence and stillness, a gleaming sliver of green gazing up at her with sleepily amused query.

“I, uh…we’re not really in the right position,” Káta muttered, trying to cover up her stunned faculties with the excuse.

Loki’s eye closed again, and a moment later Káta found herself sitting cross-legged on a fur rug on the floor, her back resting against the side of Loki’s bed, Loki’s head in her lap, his face upturned to hers, and his body stretched out away from her along the rug.

A languidly smug smile spread across his still drowsing countenance at the sound of her intake of surprised breath, and Káta tutted softly.

“Better?” He murmured.

Káta let out a humph that ruffled his hair, and Loki’s smile widened, the smugness falling away to be replaced with amusement. Káta crossed her arms indignantly, pursing her lips.

Loki must have felt the movement, for he opened his eyes, gazing directly up into hers, his expression honest and entreating. “Please.” Káta’s eyes widened in open shock. Loki? Saying _please_? “I like it. …please.”

A powerful feeling began welling up inside Káta, and she knew that she wanted to do so much more in that moment than merely trace Loki’s features as she had done before. A particular brand of wildness that she had never experienced before flooded her mind and body, urging her to go further, but fear of what Loki’s reaction would be stilled her.

He was not ready for…well, _that_. Whatever ‘ _that_ ’ was, exactly. Not for the outpouring expression of emotion in a single simple gesture that would change the way everything lay between them forever. He was not ready…and Káta somehow felt she wasn’t either.

“Ok,” she whispered, the airlessness of her voice more from the whirlwind she had just experienced inside her than from any anxiety about the moment now poised between them.

Loki smiled softly, closing his eyes, and Káta slowly reached out. Her fingers were trembling with what she didn’t know – anticipation or adrenaline or fear – but the moment she touched the planes of Loki’s face, they stilled. The feeling was as natural as plunging her hands into a rich bed of earth, and sensing all the possibilities of life that it could bring, and as she began to trace the angles of his face, Káta heard Loki let out a long, deep sigh.

She was not aware of when her hands moved from circling around his eyes, and down the bridge of his nose, from tracing the outline of his lips, and moving along the edge of first one ear then the other, up into his hair, running the silky strands through her fingers for the pure pleasure of the sensation, and rubbing at his temples and along his skull, eliciting a pleased hum of enjoyment from Loki that rumbled through from his chest and into her.

She began to gently knead with her fingertips, and Loki let out an indistinguishable mutter of confused words that she didn’t manage to catch, although the faint, almost purring sound that followed, she did hear.

It was…delicious. Terrifyingly new simply because it was Loki that she was with, but all the better for it, and somehow luxurious in the crossing of his usually rigid boundaries of permissiveness; like forbidden fruit, tasting all the better because of unspoken restrictions that they were somehow breaking, and made precious by the very fact of its exclusivity. And Káta knew that Loki was enjoying it just as much as she was, if not more. Revelling in it, like savouring a rich mead that none other would ever taste. It was a secret sensation known only to them, intensely private in the best way possible, and Káta knew that she did not want to share it with anyone else.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soo, I couldn't wait to post this until my exams are over, even though I'll be finished in about seven days, which, in the scheme of things, isn't too long, and I should really be working on my last assignment as well as starting exam revision, but hey.  
> Um, so, yes; the massive ambush of cute feels... I don't even know where that came from. I take responsibility for the cuteness after they climb the tor and when Káta names Loki's halls (DEAR LORD, THE NORSE LESSONS I HAD TO DO IN ORDER TO BE ABLE TO SEMI-NAME THEM!), but after that, Satan and his minions just jumped me and took the wheel, and I was just on for the ride. I rather enjoyed it. Hope you did :)  
> Incidentally, the tor of Valhalla is a minimum of 38.4 kilometers high. To put it another way, it's a bit less than 4.5 times the height of Mount Everest... So yes. Loki and Káta are pretty amazing climbers. But hey, they're godly, so there XP.  
> Also, the name I've given Loki's halls (which have no names in any of the mythology, and, in fact, do not even exist) is comprised of two words:  
> 'hugr', which means 'mind/spirit/heart/courage/desire/thought'  
> 'sannindi' which means 'truth'  
> I'm not entirely sure that I've combined the words correctly, or even if you can, but I'm satisfied with it for the moment.  
> Also, the meanings of the names in the story Káta reads in the opening:  
> Glæggi – “sharp-eyed, clear-sighted, clever”  
> Borgunna – “to save, to help” “to love”
> 
> I may also continue to tinker with the ending of the chapter too, we'll see.  
> EDIT: I have since tinkered. :)
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoyed it :D
> 
> Please give Kudos and/or comment :) Tell me what you like or don’t like :)  
> Also, if you like this story, or any of my other ones, and you want access to sneak previews on chapters that I'm working on, Like my Facebook page, or Follow my Twitter :)  
> https://www.facebook.com/josephinetomkinsauthor  
> https://twitter.com/jtomkinsauthor


	29. Sunset and Sunrise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki and Káta bear witness to the passing of the day from the rooftop of Valhalla, and in the stillness of the night fears and delights are felt and spoken.

Loki dozed as he never had. Sleeping in Káta’s presence was one of the rarest pleasures he had ever experienced, but knowing that she was there from the touch of her hands against his skin was a sensation he could not understand how he had managed to live without all his decades thus far.

The thrall that she held him in lasted until the sun shifted on its axis enough that a cool shadow fell over his rooms wakened them both, for Káta had also succumbed to the peculiar trance-like quality of what had passed between them, and fallen asleep, her hands cupping Loki’s jaw and neck.

Loki crossed to the window where the book still lay and scooped it up, moving to return it to its secret compartment.

Káta, after watching him sleepily for a few moments, stood and followed him over to further investigate.

“This is where I keep all…nearly all of those things most precious to me,” Loki explained softly, sensing her by his side as he returned the book to its position, and Káta could make out the faint glimmer of the snakes Auðun had made in one corner, partially hidden by the folds of the black scrap of cloth they sat on, which she thought looked like a child’s fabric eye patch.

“What’s that?” she pointed to a large, loosely folded piece of leather with uneven edges, a corner of which was bright with a smattering of colours.

A soft smile rose to Loki’s face, and he reached in, drawing it out, and slipping the bindings from it.

Káta followed him as he moved away to where there was a clear space in the floor, and watched in awe as he unfolded the pile into a roughly circular piece of leather-backed silk large enough to cover a decently sized table top, every inch of it covered in the most intricately worked replica of the Sea of Space she had ever seen. It was as though a hole into the night sky had suddenly opened up in the middle of the floor, and Káta teetered on the edge a little, her mind confounded by an artificial sense of vertigo.

“Who made this?” she asked, her voice a breathless whisper of wonder as she dropped to her knees, the better to look at the detail of the work. It was the sky as she had never seen it. Alive with a million, million constellations that she had no knowledge of even existing, constellations belonging to other worlds, fringed with the explosive flowers of colour from supernovas, starburst galaxies, and brilliantly dazzling clusters of nebula, with spiral galaxies spinning sedately through it all. It was impossibly beautiful, and made the simplicity of the night sky that she knew and had spent so many nights of her life gazing at in wonder suddenly seem very poor in comparison.

“I painted it many years ago,” Loki murmured, his gaze running lightly over his handiwork with neither pride nor diffidence, but detached scrutiny. “It took a little while.”

“It’s beautiful.”

His eyes flickered to her, a shade of amusement chasing across his features. “You’ve never seen the Sea of Space before?”

Káta shook her head, looking up at him for the first time.

Loki smiled, and extended a hand, “Let me show you.”

 

The moment Káta placed her hand in Loki’s she found they were in a different place entirely. She spun around, now on her feet, her lips parted in a gasp of awed astonishment as she took in their surroundings. They stood on the Bifröst Bridge, bathed in the rainbow light of it.

Káta stared down at her feet, confused and momentarily concerned by the fact that they did not appear to be standing on anything solid, just the blended beams of dancing light that flickered as though flames, despite the fact that she could feel a very definitely solid something beneath her feet. The bridge glowed brighter where they touched it, and sparkling particles reminiscent of cinders from a fire rose up from its surface like mist from a mountain, winking out of existence before they could rise any higher than their knees.

The sea rolled beneath them under the bridge, uncountable fathoms deep, slowly making its way away from the city of Asgard behind them, and towards the edge of the world where it would endlessly pour down for all eternity. They were close enough to the edge to hear the constant rush and roar of the cascade, and when Káta turned to Loki with questions in her expression, he nodded and pointed forwards.

Káta turned to see the object of his indication, and saw Heimdallr’s enormous Hall, Himinbjörg, blending into the darkness beyond, a faintly glimmering spot on the very edge of the world where the bridge met the Sea of Space.

“What is it made of?” she asked as Loki began to lead the way across the burning rainbow bridge towards the Hall, confused. Himinbjörg seemed to be constructed out of some kind of stone or metal, burnt blacker than obsidian, the pockmarked surface home to tiny flames that flickered here and there, like candles set in sconces, but without any visible form of fuel.

“The remnants of dead stars,” Loki replied.

Káta turned to gaze at him with disbelieving astonishment, but Loki’s expression, although amused, was truthful. He led her along the bridge towards the great double doors, which opened of their own accord as they drew near so that Káta jumped slightly.

Loki could feel her shivering slightly beside him, but a single glance at her expression told him that it was from excitement rather than fright or cold.

“Shouldn’t we ask for the Watcher’s permission before we enter?” Káta asked, pausing before they passed over the threshold of the open doors, highly aware of Loki’s tendencies to flout expected social etiquette.

Loki smiled and shook his head. “Heimdallr knows we are here; it is he who opened the doors for us.”

Reassured, Káta followed Loki through the doors, which closed noiselessly behind them. Inside, Himinbjörg was just as any other godly Hall might be expected to appear, save it was crafted from the same inky black of the star remnants as the outside. The stone, or rock, whatever it might be called, was polished and smooth inside, however; bright enough to shine back a reflection of them in the floor beneath their feet, and in those walls nearest.

“Well met, Prince Loki. It is long since last we saw each other.” A voice, layered with all the ages of wisdom and beautifully refined slipped out of the darkness of the Hall, and Heimdallr appeared before them. Káta had never seen the Watcher god before. His robes were patterned with depictions of his gold-maned steed Gulltoppr, and the great winding shape of Gjallarhorn, with vases pouring streams of mead along his sleeves. His hair was the colour of the mead that he was known to drink as he took his endless vigil, and when he smiled his golden teeth flashed in the gloom of the darkness. His eyes shone like the stars that they watched, and there was a strange sort of silvery quality to his skin, although it did not glow as hers did, that made it clear why he was known as the whitest of all the gods. His righteousness could be seen in every line of his youthful face.

“That it is, Heimdallr. Might we avail ourselves of your Gazing Room?”

The white god smiled, and inclined his head. “Of course.”

Káta was not sure what happened, but all at once he seemed to have vanished, subsumed by the darkness of his Hall’s walls.

She swallowed her surprise, and followed Loki through various rooms and corridors, until they finally passed through a set of doors and into a large circular room, unlit, open, and bare of any ornament.

The sole feature of the room was a huge circular pool that stood in its very centre, the water of its surface as undisturbed as glass, and a perfect reflection of the Sea of Space above, which was visible through a huge circle cut into the ceiling that opened right out to the sky.

“We are at the very edge of the Dome of the World,” Loki said, his voice hushed in the darkness of the room, as though he felt the same sense of meaningful weight in being there as Káta did. “This room projects from Himinbjörg and is the northern most part of Asgard.”

Káta moved forwards into the darkness of the room, illuminated only by the light from the stars and galaxies visible through the open window in the roof, and now by the faint golden glow of her skin. She paused near the edge of the pool, just far enough away that her own light did not disturb the perfection of the reflection.

“The constellations have changed and the galaxies have moved since I did it, but this is where I painted that image.” Loki murmured, now by her side.

Káta heard the faint swoosh of displaced air, and a quiet thud behind her, and knew that Loki had conjured a bench for them to sit on. “It’s like no night sky I’ve ever seen,” she whispered, still hushed with awe as she sat beside Loki, her eyes fixed on the still reflection. She nearly felt Loki’s low chuckle beside her more than she heard it.

“It is not yet night, Káta. We are close enough to the edge of the Dome that the Sea of Space dominates the sky, but for those privileged enough to see it, the sky is always like this. Valhalla is close enough to the peak of the Dome that what you see as the sky of the day on the ground is merely an overlay over the Sea of Space, like a curtain of blue gauze. Where you are closest to the edge of the Dome the Sea of Space reveals itself in its true form, and the sky falls away to reveal this. Only at sunset and sunrise from Valhalla does Sól completely overtake the airy dominion from Máni.”

Káta took in a deep, glorying breath, and then turned to gaze at Loki. “I want to watch the sun set and then rise again with you.”

Loki blinked, his own sun temporarily transformed to the glowing, elated gold of her eyes, but gathered his thoughts. “There is only one place to watch the night pass, and the sun set and rise,” he replied, a light flashing in his eyes that had become increasingly familiar of late, and which lit flames burning in Káta’s belly.

His hand found hers in the darkness, its coolness reassuringly familiar, and a moment later, they were gone.

 

Atop the great golden dome of Valhalla, Loki and Káta reappeared. Sunset was drawing near, and there was no sign of the Sea of Space at all, the gold of the dome impossibly bright to look at. It seemed almost molten beneath their feet, radiating the last warmth of the sun for the day.

Together they stood in silence, watching as the sun slowly inched closer to the horizon in the west, gilded by the flame of its parting rays. The sun itself was a burning white spot still blinding to look at, the edges flushed with crimson, and the sky looked as though every barrel of wine and mead in existence had been poured into it, forming a blazing shifting vista of reds and shades of gold.

As the sun slipped below the horizon, which was now a burning scarlet line, the colour of the sky deepened to plum, bruising as the faintest dark flush of night crept in from the colder eastern sky with a violet veil spangled with the beginnings of the stars to overlay the heavens with the colours of dusk.

Loki and Káta remained unmoving sentinels to the passing of the day, their eyes pools that reflected what they saw. With the coming of night, the ordinary wine colours from the sunset and the powdering of pastels from dusk fell away, replaced once more with the impossible brightness of the Sea of Space.

In the illumination of the stars and galaxies and supernovas overhead, the gold of the dome glimmered like a wind-ruffled lake filled with the reflection of a full moon, silvery and shifting, taking on the cold bright colours of the constellations overhead in place of its usual sun-kissed fire.

Loki drew Káta towards the centre of the dome where a low set cupola from the roof, the side of which was more carved pillars set at intervals than a true wall, the gaps between them letting light fall down into the golden throne room of Valhalla below. They sat side by side on the eastern side, their backs against the edge, content to observe the wonders of the night sky in companionable silence.

 

Later, they lay side by side, the stars and galaxies they gazed at reflected in their eyes. A slight heat still radiated from the gold of the dome, but it had mostly dissipated. What heat remained was welcome, for it was cold here at the highest point of Asgard. It felt as though the temperature had lowered to match the cold brightness of the stars and moon that now served as their illumination.

“Tell me a story,” Káta requested softly. Her voice was the first proper noise to fall on their ears in well over an hour, for it was now long past the time when even the most determined of revellers would be awake, and they had been left in the peaceful silence that lay between them, interrupted by nothing save the usual gentle night-time sounds, and the whisper of the wind across the dome and through the pillars of the cupola.

Loki lay gazing up at the stars, thinking, but nothing presented itself. “I…can’t think of any to tell,” he murmured. “I’m not a very good storyteller.” He thought he caught a faint sound of amusement from Káta, but he could not be sure.

“Make one up,” she suggested softly.

Loki opened his mouth to protest, but words he had not ever thought to say came forth instead, the first threads of a story falling into his mind. “There was once a man whose fate was to spend the long years of his immortality earning the right to his own worthiness.”

Káta stilled. Of all the things for Loki to say, she had hardly thought that this might be it.

“In his childhood he had committed he knew not what in order that he was thus fated to strive, but in his adulthood he came to the knowledge that it was not by any action of his own that he was thus assigned, but that instead it was what he was born to be, and that in him Fate had played a cruel joke.

“In many things he tried to find a diversion during the long years of his youth; but it was all to no avail, for none can turn from their true path for long. His forays taught him that the world was an ill place to be honest and open in, for such trust was terrible naivety in the company of those that would use it to do harm, and there were none that he met who did not so.

“The setbacks he encountered were numerous and frustrating, but eventually truth came to his mind, and he realised their purpose. It was not his fate to prosper in such avenues as others might, but instead to pursue that which he had been born without: worth. Without his worth, he was denied the pleasures of all other sweet enticements that were open to others, and so he set himself to his task.

“And there he has dwelt across millennia; toiling to earn his worth, unaware that it was his fate to remain a fixed point at the beginning of a path, ever attempting to reach its end, and never to do so.”

There was a long silence, and Loki glanced left towards Káta to find her head turned towards him, watching him closely. He turned away once more, a flush of embarrassment rising in his cheeks.

“I told you I’m not very good,” he mumbled.

“No,” Káta replied softly, and there was something in her tone that made Loki turn back to gaze at her, “it was…very interesting.” She smiled faintly at him, and her hand slid across the empty span of gold separating them to take his, her fingers entwining with his.

For all the darkness and the silver light of the stars and moon, her eyes as he met them still retained their golden illumination just as her skin did. Loki was not sure how long he could have remained like that, lost in her eyes, reading without comprehension the emotions that swirled within them. Forever, perhaps, but the pressure of her hand within his was too inviting – a sight that he would never be able to get enough of, that no amount of proof would ever assure him of its reality – and he glanced down to see his hand haloed gold in some of the light from hers.

What felt like a punch that felt as good and dizzying as a sudden influx of seiðr pushed its way through his chest, and he was suddenly unable to meet her eyes again. Instead, he turned to gaze up into the sky once more, hoping that perhaps in the heavens there might be an answer to the undefined question that had been circling inside him, growing so gradually for so long that he hardly knew when it had begun.

“Look!” he breathed.

Káta followed his finger with her eyes, and together they watched as a shooting star went burning across the sky, white hot, with a long comet’s tail of sparkling embers trailing temporarily in its wake.

Káta laughed softly in light delight.

“We used to see these from the orchards,” she whispered, her free hand outstretched above her, her fingertips tracing the star’s cindering trajectory. She turned to Loki, her face lit brighter than before in the blaze of the burning star. “Make a wish.”

Loki gazed at her for a long moment, staring into her eyes, and then turned to look up the star just before it passed out of their vision, and wished with all his being. He wasn’t sure what he was wishing for. Just that it was a want…a _need_ that resided deep in his heart.

“The dryads used to tell me a story about shooting stars,” Káta murmured. “They said that they were the messages sent between two lovers – Fríða and Unnarr – who were condemned to live at opposite ends of the Universe – as far away from each other as it was possible, because they had offended three nornir sisters. They had fought to stay together, fought against Fate itself, but in the end they were separated.

“In the east Fríða wept for Unnarr, and in the west Unnarr cried out for her. The dryads said that their tears were what made the stars; every single one, preserved and sparkling to fill the night sky between them. But even after all they had been through, even when they were so far apart that it seemed even memory could not connect them, their hearts still burned strongly with their love; so strongly that the very cinders of it burst from their chests and sped across the skies and past all the worlds that separated them to each other, so they would always know that the other was there, on the other side of the universe, loving them.”

Loki felt Káta’s hand squeeze his reflexively, and he found that he too was holding tighter than before.

They lay, gazing up at the stars, their minds inhabiting some faraway place together, and Káta shivered slightly. Loki wordlessly passed a hand through the air, a fur rug dropping into existence over them to ward out the night’s cold.

 

There was something about the night sky above them that kept the pair from sleep, and so they lay side by side through the night instead, awake and silent but for the occasional murmur that passed between them, connected by their hands beneath the furs, and, although they did not know it, in spirit.

Eventually, the shades of night began to pale, and dawn crept towards them, at first no more than a hazy lightening in the east, but with the slow inexorability of time, the sun rose.

It was only a gentle golden spot on the horizon, the gentlest of primrose yellows as it first began its ascent, but then, as the sun rose higher, chasing the last shadows of the night westward, its colour intensified, flushing a deep brassy gold, the sky orange streaked with stray trails of fluorescent magenta.

“I think I could grow to like cities,” Káta murmured dreamily as she slowly sat up, her eyes gliding over the gleaming vista that the city of Asgard became in the pale gilding of dawn’s first light.

“I want you to stay,” Loki said suddenly, pushing the words out before he could make up his mind to stop himself, finally giving voice to the anxieties that had begun to plague him over the preceding days. In the enchanted timelessness of the night that they had inhabited, he had been able to forget everything and thinking only of the girl beside him, but now it had passed, and his cares had returned to him. He had spent the greater part of many nights turning the matter over and over in his mind, and the more he thought on it, the more he knew he could not stand the idea of never seeing Káta again once she returned to her mother’s orchards; whenever that might be.

Káta turned to gaze at him where he sat rigidly beside her, smiling in gentle bemusement. Where _had_ his sudden concern come from? “I’m not going anywhere, Loki. I promise.”

A frown of pain flickered through Loki’s brows, and he pressed his eyes shut, shaking his head. “Promises made to me are made to be broken,” he muttered, so softly that Káta knew the words had not been meant for her ears, and that Loki was not even aware of speaking them. They opened anew the ache in her heart for the Prince. Loki did not seem able to meet her eyes, for he addressed his lap when he next spoke. “No…not now. But one day you will. And I…I don’t want that to happen.”

Káta blinked, her head tilted in unconscious imitation of the way he did when trying to understand, although her expression was merely curious. “Why?”

Loki drew in a breath, somewhat taken aback by the question, and surprised enough that his eyes briefly flitted to hers. “You’re my friend,” he murmured, “I like who I am when I’m with you. You…you make me better.” He stared down at his chest, and muttered into it, “I know you don’t like cities, but would you…would you stay? If I asked you to?”

Káta’s silence stretched between them for so long that Loki began to grow anxious, and when he eventually looked up, he was surprised to see an emotion in her eyes that he could not name, but that he had become intimately familiar with ever since meeting her. It was something that only she had ever made him feel, but he was yet to divine what it was called.

Loki opened his mouth to say something, although what he didn’t know, and was startled by Káta as she leant over, wrapping her arms about him and curling against his chest.

He slowly leant back against the golden wall of the cupola cradling her against him, his arms now around her, holding her close, his surprise having given way to a deep sense of contentment. He hummed in low satisfaction, the vibration travelling through Káta as she drew a deep breath of Loki’s piney, snow-fresh scent, wishing fiercely that the moment could last for eternity as much Loki was. Even if they stayed there for decades, it would never be enough.

The feeling that had flooded her heart was so sweet it hurt, and Káta was not sure why something that felt so good, so right, should hurt. It was an echo of what she had first felt in Loki’s room, a surging tide that she desperately wanted to let take her towards what she craved, but she knew she couldn’t. She knew that the answer was hovering beyond the golden capsule of the moment they had fallen into, beyond the enchanted gloaming time that only ever existed between twilight and the edge of dawn that was painfully close to ending now with the rising of the sun, and she did not want to break it sooner than could be helped, because she knew that the answer would bring heartache to her.

They remained as they were as the sun peeked above the horizon before them, inching with gentle inexorability that Káta wished she could reverse, up to take its place in the sky. They lay with their eyes closed, for all the world slumbering, as though they were owls falling asleep with the coming of the day, but neither was in so dulled a state when the last fragments of so sweet a moment remained to be savoured before dawn stole it away.

 

When Káta lay down to sleep that night, the answer in her mind, and its pain in her heart, she shook her head, and hid her face in her pillow – there were some things that she wanted to push beyond the horizon; and this was certainly one of them. Knowing she would regret it eventually, Káta ignored the answer and its attendant ache, imagining instead that her pillow was Loki’s chest, and that his steady heartbeat was in her ears once more, a lullaby to carry her into sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it feels like it's been AGES since I last updated, but perhaps that's because I posted the last chapter earlier in the month than this and since there a lot of water has passed under the bridge.  
> Anyway. SQUISH-YOUR-FACE FEELS AND SUBTEXT.  
> I hope you liked it :3  
> Please do savour the happy feels while they last, because in several chapters' time, we'll be plunging off the deep end back into angst again. Just a warning. ;)  
> And yes, that child's eyepatch in Loki's secret cupboard is the eyepatch he and Thor used to use when they pretended to be their father when they were little :3
> 
> For those on you up on your Norse Mythology you'll know that "canonically" Heimdallr and Loki weren't exactly on the best of terms... I've decided to make them pretty friendly acquaintances with each other in this before any proper trouble gets stirred in the mix to estrange them. :)  
> Also, in case I wasn't very clear: Sól is the Norse word for the Sun, and Máni for the Moon.  
> The nornir (singular: norn) in Káta's story are female beings that rule the destiny of gods and men.  
> Oh, and:  
> Fríða means "love/peace" and "protection/defence"  
> Unnar means "to love/to wave, billow, roll, undulate" and "army leader/general/warrior", "one who wards/defender", "spear"
> 
> Please give Kudos and/or comment :) Tell me what you like or don’t like :)  
> Also, if you like this story, or any of my other ones, and you want access to sneak previews on chapters that I'm working on, Like my Facebook page, or Follow my Twitter :)  
> https://www.facebook.com/josephinetomkinsauthor  
> https://twitter.com/jtomkinsauthor


	30. Double Trouble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The inhabitants of Valhalla start to notice a definite increase in the amount of pranks happening within the palace, but only a few know why.

Loki and Káta leant over the table in the Prince’s map room. All those charts and scrolls on tactics that had survived his rampage nearly three months before had been cleared from the table (having been neglected and ignored in the interval), now long forgotten by Loki, and replaced instead with a large piece of parchment covered in their sketches and notes that comprised their preparation for their next big trick on the inhabitants of Valhalla.

Ever since Loki had first brought Káta to his Hall the previous week they had spent the chief of their time together engaged in all forms of trickery and mischief in Valhalla, much to the vexation and inconvenience of the populace. Many had hoped, vainly, that Loki’s sudden inconsistencies in his mischief making were indicative of a gradual incline, and had now been severely disappointed.

Their current scheme was one that Káta had dreamed up after observing the rather obsequious attentions of one demigod to a number of protesting handmaidens, with the design of cutting his over inflated ego down to size. Loki had been all too eager to put the plan into action, and had tweaked several aspects in order to ensure the greatest effect would be felt by the offending individual.

Their preparations were nearing completion, for all that remained was a decision on location. Their deliberations about what might be the best vantage point from which to observe their planned chaos were interrupted by the sound of the great doors to the Hall opening and closing in the distance. Loki left the room, muttering sourly under his breath, making for the antechamber beyond with a scowl at the disruption.

Káta listened with half an ear as she continued to assess the various places they had marked out as potential viewing spots in the sketch of the demigod’s chambers. She had grown inured to Loki’s overprotectiveness, and his desire to keep her as much a secret as possible from all others but himself now that they were in Valhalla, so she was surprised to hear the voices of Loki and the god that had come to see him nearing the charts room.

Suddenly she glanced up, recognising the voice.

“Káta!” Kvasir exclaimed brightly as he rounded the corner, opening his arms in an avuncular fashion. “I had not thought to find you here!”

For all his declaration, however, Loki noticed the sudden gleam of interest in the god of inspiration’s canny eyes and his own narrowed.

“Nor I you, Kvasir,” Káta replied coolly with a questioning twitch of her brows. “What is your business here?”

Loki’s dampened spirits were lifted somewhat by a sudden rush of gleeful pride at Káta’s reaction, and the corners of his previously sour mouth curled with a slight smirk. Káta noticed.

“You are quite missed at Mærsalr these days,” Kvasir replied reproachfully, smiling as he glanced between the rigid Loki and the unimpressed Káta, not having noticed the flicker of communication that had passed between the pair. “I found myself in need of some sprightly conversation, and without you to hand, who else should my mind alight on but our own Prince Loki?”

Káta’s expression was eloquent enough about her reception of Kvasir’s referral to her in the manner that one might talk of a usually conveniently placed vase that had suddenly gone amiss, but she said nothing. Loki’s expression was less forgiving, however.

“We are busy, Kvasir,” he replied tartly. “If there is something specific you wish to say then speak it now. If not it must wait until another time.”

Kvasir raised his hands apologetically, his expression still bright and unoffended by his cold reception. “Very well, very well,” he replied cheerfully, “I can see you are otherwise engaged. No matter; it can wait until another time. I can see myself out.” He executed a brief but low bow to Káta, and another to Loki, and turned to leave.

Loki, it seemed, was not about to leave anything to chance, for he did not put it past Kvasir to hang about and eavesdrop on them if left to his own devices, and instead stalked alongside the god, escorting him out.

 

Kvasir eventually took his leave of Loki after the Prince had shut the doors somewhat rudely in his face, and made his way with all possible haste towards Fensalir.

His nonchalance as he entered, disturbing Frigg at her loom, was conspicuous to all but the blind.

“My lady, I have news of great interest to you,” he declared, a meaningful glance in his eyes.

Frigg understood his meaning at once, and sent her handmaidens from the room. Once alone, she gestured towards Kvasir to continue.

“You might have noticed the sudden lapses in Prince Loki’s trickery over this past half-year, and perhaps the sudden rise in it once more of late.” Kvasir began in a tantalising, roundabout fashion.

Frigg nodded calmly. “Do not bandy words with me, Kvasir; speak plain.”

“Very well. I am now in a position to inform you that the Prince has formed such an attachment to one of the nymphs of Mærsalr – one by the name of Káta – such that he has brought her to his Halls.”

Frigg’s brows rose in surprise. “How did you come by this knowledge?”

“I sought out the Prince in his chambers, and discovered her there. They seemed deep in council in his map room. She is far above intelligent by any person’s standards, and of a similarly mischievous mind as the young Prince, so it is not to be wondered at that he should single her out for her company. It is my belief that they were closeted there in order to prepare some new trickery.”

“And how were you received?” Frigg asked curiously.

Kvasir pouted somewhat, his expression that of one deeply wounded. “Very ill, indeed. I had barely entered before I was turned out once more. The Prince said they were busy.”

Frigg nodded thoughtfully, concealing a faint smile, although she could not help the twinkle that came to her eyes. “Thank you, Kvasir; you have done well in telling me this.”

Kvasir bowed deeply, and turned to leave. At the doors he paused, however, as though struck by a sudden thought. “Oh! There is one thing more. The Prince’s Hall has been named.”

For the first time throughout the audience Frigg’s composure slipped as she showed a fully-fledged flash of confusion. “What?” she exclaimed.

“It is there in the lintel of the doors.” Kvasir replied insouciantly. “Hugrsannidir.”

Frigg frowned in bemused thought. “‘Heart’s Truth’?” she murmured softly to herself.

Kvasir nodded musingly. “I thought it an odd choice, too. It is plain that the Prince did not choose the name, although it was his seiðr that put the runes into the wood.”

Frigg shook her head. “It is not odd,” she murmured. Then she seemed to remember who she was speaking to, and her voice became sharp. “And it is not your place to comment on such a matter.”

Kvasir made a short bow, chastened. “Apologies, my lady.”

Frigg nodded briskly, imperturbable once more. “Very well, if that is all, you may go.”

Kvasir dipped his head once more, and exited, leaving the Queen to her thoughts and the sudden desire to meet the extraordinary girl called Káta.

 

*

 

The coming days rained havoc and all forms of mayhem down upon the inhabitants of Valhalla, such that those gods and goddesses who had the luxury of other Halls to escape to beyond the city did so. Their attempts at flight only served to amuse Loki and Káta further, for many were teased and harassed as they attempted to make good their escape, such that some had declared that Loki now had a legion of evil and mischievous spirits to do his bidding, and that his absences from trickery had been in order to amass his helpers. The gods and goddesses were not the only subjects of Loki and Káta’s mischief however, for a good many handmaidens and manservants found themselves disrupted by the antics of the pair.

Food in the mouths of those eating was turned putrid or found suddenly to alarmingly wriggle mid-bite, their plates suddenly filled with squirming eels or mounded with jellied eyes that followed their movement, and more than one goddess was sent screaming through the corridors before their hysterics gave way and they passed out into the arms of the nearest available god. Clothing was shrunk; prized possessions disappeared only to be found many hours later in the same spot they had originally been placed after much annoyance and distress; and many an individual found themselves in an argument they believed to have been started by the opposite party, who in turn claimed that their accuser had begun the matter, when in fact all that had occurred might have been a few judiciously altered words by the God of Mischief’s seiðr.

Káta did her best to temper Loki’s harsher tendencies and tricks, but had never yet been given cause to reproach him for his behaviour. She discovered that he had a propensity to target those who either were known, or he knew, to have been remiss in their behaviour to some person or other underserving of their poor treatment. Oftentimes his actions were guided by the information passed onto him by his urchin friends, who, with the run of the city, were able to provide information that no others had access to about the true and unvarnished behaviour of such individuals when away from the pretence put on for the glory of Valhalla.

The knowledge pleased and reassured her, and knowing Loki as she now did it did not come as any enormous surprise to her that he behaved such. Loki’s retributive justice, such as it might be called, always resulted in the loudest complaints coming from those who deserved it most, and Káta noticed a tendency for the Prince to put a little twist on each trick, tailoring it to fit the misdemeanours of the individual such that the justice could well be called poetic.

Thus far Loki had abstained from involving her in the actual execution of their tricks as much as possible, preferring instead to ensconce her in a position of secrecy that generally afforded a good view of the mischief that was to ensue. It was touching to see the lengths to which he would go in order to ensure what he termed her wellbeing and their privacy, and she felt sure that she understood his reasons for doing so, and that they lay behind the reason why he was yet to introduce her to the Allfather, more than simply due to his own eccentricities.

 

They were having a quiet day, walking the winding servant hallways of Valhalla – for Loki had soon discovered her extraordinary memory for paths, and delighted in putting it to the test and seeing whether he could outfox her (a matter in which he was yet to succeed) – when Loki paused after rounding a bend in the corridor. He seemed to be listening very intently for a moment, and Káta watched with patient curiosity as a sly grin spread across his face at the confirmation of some piece of information she was not privy to.

He drew her further along the corridor past the corner, and settled her safely out of sight behind the protrusion of a pillar, mischief in his eyes.

“Watch,” he whispered, melting away before her eyes.

Káta’s eyes darted about the corridor from her place behind the column, searching for a hint of what trickery Loki was up to. A moment later she was rewarded with the sight of a beautifully fashioned heavy gold bangle dropping into existence in the middle of the floor.

Káta barely had time to begin puzzling over what Loki intended to achieve by turning himself into a bangle, when the sound of women’s laughter came to her down the corridor they had just passed along. Beginning to guess what it was that Loki’s plan might be, Káta ensured that she was well hidden, and watched and waited.

Eventually two demigoddess handmaidens appeared around the corner. It took them the slightest of moments to spot the bangle, and then they had both dropped to the floor and picked it up.

“Whose do you think it is, Erna?” asked the shorter one.

Her companion shrugged, examining the workmanship and design of the bangle closely. “No one important, I think; there are no symbols of the major gods or goddesses in the pattern. I shall keep it, Dísa.” She made to put the bangle on, but Dísa stopped her.

“Why should you get to have it? I saw it first!” she reached out to snatch the bangle from her friend.

“Yes, but _I_ picked it up first,” replied Erna grabbing at the bangle.

The two struggled over it for a few moments more, pushing and pulling at each other.

Káta wondered how much longer Loki was going to let it continue, when the handmaidens let out near simultaneous screams of fright and threw the bangle skywards. Káta followed its trajectory and saw that it was no longer a bangle, but a slender, brightly patterned serpent.

The demigoddesses were already out of sight, having run away squealing back the way they had come, and the snake that was Loki had started to fall back on a course that would take him into a collision with the wall of the corridor.

Káta’s eyes widened as she realised what was about to happen, and she rushed out from behind the statue, cannoning into the wall opposite with one hand outstretched, just in time to catch Loki before he hit the wall.

Panting she levered herself away from the stones, ignoring the faint pains from her impact, and held him close before her face. Loki wound himself around her hand, his tail curled about her wrist as he wove between her fingers, hissing in a gentle sort of way.

“You should be more careful,” Káta whispered seriously as the anxious hammering of her heart began to settle. She could have sworn the snake winked. She frowned; it was hardly a matter for levity.

“Who are you and why are you here?”

Káta’s head whipped up at the unknown voice, and stared up into the suspicious face of the einherjar guard before her. Evidently he had heard the demigoddesses’ screams and come to investigate the cause.

Káta blinked, swallowed, and collected herself, adjusting her body language slightly. “I’m a snake charmer,” she replied, taking care to flutter her lashes and smile coyly, “Prince Loki sent for me.”

The guard seemed to think her explanation plausible enough, and Káta felt Loki tighten his grip around her wrist slightly, although she was not sure whether it was out of annoyance or concern. The guard was still regarding her with some suspicion, however, so she lifted the hand that held Loki to draw attention to him.

“One of my snakes escaped, so I came in search of him.”

“You charm snakes that small?” the guard asked disbelievingly, glancing towards Loki once more.

Then he paused.

The snake in the girl’s hand was now as thick as her wrist when before it was no more than a finger width in girth, and winding its way up and around her arm all the way to her shoulder. He blinked, then rubbed his eyes, but it didn’t make the slightest bit of difference. The snake was now even larger than before. Great heavy coils of its body hung in loops from her arms, and the thickest part of its sinuous form, which now dwarfed that of her neck, was draped across her shoulders, the tip of its tail running through one of her hands, and its triangular head through the other.

The snake rose up, its head reared to a level with the guard’s own, its tongue flickering. Káta watched the apple of the guard’s throat bob as he swallowed, amused.

“Oh,” Káta replied unconcernedly, reaching up to draw Loki’s head away with the hand that his tail was wrapped around, and gently rub at the diamond pattern that started on his forehead, “I can charm larger; but this fellow is special. He’s a bit naughty, but he’s my favourite.”

“Uh…um…yes,” stammered the guard. “Well…just don’t let it –”

“– _him_ ,” Káta corrected.

“Uh, yes, him, escape again.”

“I’ll do my best.” The guard nodded, then quickly escaped back around the corner.

The moment he was gone, Káta felt the warm weight of the snake disappear from her arms and shoulders, and turned to see Loki leaning against the wall behind her, grinning. “Well, that was rather fun,” he said.

Káta smiled, shaking her head. “You really are incorrigible.”

Loki raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. “What? You’ve only just realised?”

Káta pursed her lips in attempted severity, but her smile kept breaking through. “Just don’t try a trick like that again; I don’t want to be the one who finds you and has to take you to a healer in the form of a snake and explain just why they’ve got to fix you.”

Loki’s expression became contrite. “I scared you,” he murmured.

Káta folded her arms, and frowned properly. “Yes.”

He drew closer and laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. “I won’t do it again; I promise.”

Káta glanced up at him, her chin still dipped crossly towards her chest, and saw the earnestness of his expression. Loki gently tilted her chin up once more with his forefinger and thumb, a promise in his eyes. Káta’s crossness melted, and she smiled a little in return. “Good… Let’s go make some mischief.”

Loki’s eyebrow twitched in amusement. “You make an offer I can’t refuse,” he murmured, his smile broadening, and then taking Káta’s hand led the way down the corridor, the pair of them disappearing before they had taken half a dozen steps.

 

For all Loki’s prodigious care, however, it was impossible to keep Káta entirely secret from the other inhabitants of Valhalla. Their japes and mischief – although never left with evidence that could trace it back to them, save, perhaps, the very cleanliness of the execution that could be achieved by none other than the master of trickery himself – did mean that Káta was abroad within the palace, and sooner or later, they were spotted together.

 

A fair-haired demigod sat down at one of the long benches in a drinking hall much favoured by the younger gods, scratching his head thoughtfully.

“I could have sworn I just saw Prince Loki with a girl,” he remarked to the other gods at the table. The group looked up from their tankards of mead, some glancing at one another in confusion.

A bearded demigod with a sharp face and laughing mouth named Balli guffawed, and slapped his thigh. “You’ve got to be _the_ most gullible god in Valhalla, Höðr!” he exclaimed. The others all joined him in laughing, and Höðr reddened.

“I swear by Odin’s beard that I saw her!” he replied, still somewhat put out by the jest.

Víðarr, a milder god than the rest who had laughed less, leaned over and clapped him on the back. “Oh, come now, Höðr; don’t take it to heart. We’ve all been fooled by Loki before. Doubtless he’s laughed at the lot of us more than we ever have.”

Höðr frowned, refusing to back down. “I know what I saw,” he muttered, taking a surly draft of mead. Víðarr shook his head.

Balli, however, had not given up. “We all know what you saw, too!” he cried with a grin; “one of the Trickster’s illusions!” a roar of laughter rose up from the table. “Next thing you know you’ll be telling us that you saw him making love to the girl!”

The other gods all pounded the table as their laughter intensified. The idea of the God of Mischief ever taking an interest in a woman was the most unlikely happening of the century. Many had said that Ragnarök was more likely to arrive before such an occurrence, and there were some circles in which bets had been laid by certain very drunk individuals simply because the likelihood was so improbable.

Höðr glared sourly at his companions. “They were laughing, and ran away when they saw me,” he muttered.

Balli grinned, taking a slurp of mead. “You just keep telling yourself that, Höðr.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First week back at uni is over - this will be my last semester, and then I'll be post-grad! Yay! But scary...
> 
> So, not as exciting or squee as the previous chapter, but I think we'll all agree that's to be expected XP  
> I don't have too much to say about this chapter, really.  
> Kvasir is terribly nosey though - such a gossip. XP And Loki is so possessive X3
> 
> Erna means "brisk, vigorous"  
> Dísa means "goddess, female god"
> 
> Höðr and Víðarr are actual gods listed in the Norse mythology - but they're minor ones. (And yes, Game of Thrones readers, you now know where George R.R. Martin got Hodor's name).  
> Höðr means "warrior"  
> Víðarr possibly means "wide ruler"  
> Balli means "dangerous, hazardous, risky, terrible, bold, brave, daring"
> 
> Oh, and when they're teasing Höðr and say "making love" I'm using the words in the archaic sense of them, aka closer to wooing and courtship.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it :D  
> Please give Kudos and/or comment :) Tell me what you like or don’t like :)  
> Also, if you like this story, or any of my other ones, and you want access to sneak previews on chapters that I'm working on, Like my Facebook page, or Follow my Twitter :)  
> https://www.facebook.com/josephinetomkinsauthor  
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	31. Freedom in the Wilderness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Káta begins to teach Loki some of what she knows, and Loki at last has a chance to give a gift he has long waited to present.

Having somewhat revised Káta’s opinion regarding cities, and shared the many secrets of Valhalla that he had uncovered in his years alone, it soon became time for Káta to teach Loki some of that which she knew. For all that she now could tolerate the bustle of the city, nothing would ever erase the longing for the open wilderness that resided in Káta’s heart, and it was a love that she wished to share with Loki.

Each day they rode out of the city together through the Gate of Iðavǫllr, sometimes unable to help but race each other across the plain, other times slowly walking side by side in equally companionable silence or conversation. Káta did not know the secrets of the mountains of Asgard in the same way that she knew the secrets of her mother’s orchards and its surrounds, but she knew enough of nature to be able to uncover those of its mysteries that most delighted her wherever the location might be.

Loki was all too eager to follow Káta and learn what she had to share, and was not at all surprised to find her showing him peculiar lichens that produced tiny flowers and oddly shaped fungi that only grew in particular locations in certain weather in an astonishing array of colours he had never even known they could become. She knew where to find even the rarest of flowers and medicinal plants, and how to encourage certain things to grow in areas that before had been barren. All this and more she shared and taught him, pointing out subtle changes and indicators and what they signalled for the plants, how to enrich poor soil, and even what to sing to the plants to influence their growth. He did not have the necessary magic for such songs to take effect in the manner that they did when she or dryads sang them, for his seiðr was of quite a different type to hers, but Káta assured him that even without power the words would have some small effect.

Slightly more of a surprise to Loki was the fact that Káta had as great an affinity with animals as she did with plants. She could walk into shady groves, which before had been still but for the rustle of wind in the leaves, and within minutes all manner of animals would emerge slowly from the undergrowth to investigate and greet her, and through her, him as well. It was an unnerving experience to be approached with such open curiosity by animals which he had always known to flee at the approach of people, and even more so to see no flicker of fear in their eyes. The trust they had in Káta, they shared with him, and it took a few moments of gentle coaxing from Káta before he was quite sure that he could trust himself to interact with them as she did without frightening them off.

Loki found it deeply reminiscent of the first time he had met the urchins of city in his adolescence, for they had approached him without the fear or judgement in their eyes that was ever present in the countenances of adults, and only an eager curiosity to find out more about their soon-to-be new friend and the contents of his pockets. Their friendship had given him a haven of refuge and trust that he had prized through the long years of his youth and now his adulthood, and sitting in the grass having completely wild animals scurry about him as though he were one of them or part of the scenery began to extent the tiny nub of his self-confidence.

Most astonishing of all, however, was when the animals began to bring out their young in clusters or meandering lines behind them. Káta could walk with impunity into a herd of grazing deer, the hart only raising his great antlered head to receive her greeting hand, the does and their fawns barely glancing up as they contentedly cropped the grass.

Loki had scarcely dared to believe that they would brook his intrusion with the same calm equanimity, and yet as Káta beckoned him to follow, and he made his faltering way forwards, they accorded him the same docile response. He was still in a state of faintly stunned shock ten minutes later when they were sitting down amongst the herd, Káta with one of the fawns by her side, its head in her lap enjoying the gentle scratch she was giving it on the bony ridge where it would soon start to grow its first set of antlers while its mother gently nosed at Loki’s shoulder.

 

One day they found themselves in a clearing of wild cherry trees in full fruit. They had climbed through the branches together, picking the perfectly ripened fruit, and eating as they stood amongst the boughs. They had eaten until their hands and mouths were turned purple with the juice, tossing cherries into each other’s mouths when they were in separate trees, and taking it in turns to see who could spit the stones furthest.

Upon reaching the ground their meal had devolved into a rather silly game, Káta having discovered just how wonderful the cherry juice was as paint, instigating the set-to by reaching across and drawing on Loki’s face. Such an incursion could not be brooked without some form of retaliation, and Loki had accordingly set about on his course of retribution. The upshot of it was that both were laughing and covered in sticky purple streaks from head to foot, and Káta’s previously white dress was unrecognisable for spots and stains and purple handprints.

“I’ll remove the marks for you,” Loki commented as he regarded his own peculiarly pigmented attire, glancing over to Káta who looked like she had been standing in a rain of wine.

Káta smiled. “Don’t bother. There’s a pool nearby that we can clean off in.”

The suggestion was a good one, given the heat of the day, which had in no way been lessened by their exertions, so Loki got up and followed Káta through the trees.

Soon enough the sound of rushing water came to their ears, growing louder and louder as they advanced, and then without warning the trees opened out onto the edge of a grassy cliff.

Káta grinned widely as she tilted her head towards the edge, and Loki peered over to see a ten foot waterfall beneath him with hundreds of tiny rainbows in its mist thundering down into a deep clear pool at the bottom, the water tumbling away down a bouldered river.

“A pool?” he asked with amused incredulity.

Káta grinned, and shrugged. “Well…a pool with a waterfall,” she laughed, slipping off her shoes and putting out her hand for his.

Loki followed suit, and taking her hand, met her grin with a wild smile. They ran together hand in hand, and leapt off, flying through the mist and rainbows, their clothes streaming, Káta screaming with laughter, and Loki letting out an echoing whoop as they fell, before they plunged together into the water with a great splash, surrounded by bubbles beneath the surface.

They barely touched the bottom, and resurfaced in near synchronisation, laughing as they trod water nearly nose to nose.

“I think I could get used to forests,” Loki chuckled, a genuine quietness in his merry eyes.

Káta’s smile widened, changing from laughter to affection, tenderness in her eyes. She glanced back up to where they had jumped from, and grinned. “Want to go again?”

 

The business and industry of their time together had a tendency to eclipse all time spent elsewhere in the company of others. Neither Káta nor Loki could exactly account for such a phenomenon, but both felt the extra spark of jubilant energy that filled them every time they saw each other, and anticipation of their next meeting was a fidgeting thought foremost in their minds when they were absent from each other’s company.

Their time apart did not lack activity either; for both still had claims enough on their time. For all this however, Loki determined to escape some of his usual engagements, and had not been idle with the stolen time. Ever since he had first noticed Káta’s interest in harps, his mind had begun to turn over the matter, and when he had returned her book of music to the library, he had settled on a course of action. It had taken a little while to research about construction and wood types and then of course to make it, after which it had been a question of waiting, and now he felt the time was right.

Káta had taken them up the slopes of the mountains to race along the ridge, which had been as exhilarating as it had been dangerous, and now they were settled in a sunny clearing eating a lunch of various foraged items they had found together, while their horses took a well-earned rest. They were just finishing up their own meal, although their horses were still contentedly cropping the grass nearby, when Loki spoke.

“I have something for you.”

Káta glanced up from the folded leaf cup she was drinking out of, having shown Loki how to fold large leaves together to form delicate little basins when they had collected water from a spring earlier. Her eyes widened as a beautifully fashioned lap harp appeared in Loki’s hands. It was strung with bronze strings, with a proud, tall column that was smoothly finished and covered in delicate carvings.

Loki passed the harp over, and Káta took it silently with the same expression of stunned awe, her hands sliding over the smoothly finished fine grain, tracing the patterns of the carvings, and the painted decal on the soundboard. She took in a deep breath of the distinctive scent of the wood, and smiled.

“Walnut,” she murmured.

A faint smile chased its way across Loki’s countenance, which was grave with his own nervousness.

Káta leant forwards, studying the design of the carvings, and smiled as she made out images of apple trees. The decal was a rather beautiful swirling slender knotwork design with a tiny green bird on one side, high at the peak of the soundboard, and a seated female figure at the bottom on the opposite side.

Káta glanced up at Loki. “Did you make this?” she asked softly.

Loki nodded stiffly, the waves of his anxiety subsiding as Káta’s smile widened. Words of thanks did not need to pass between them; their eyes spoke eloquently enough.

“How?” delighted curiosity shone in her eyes.

“Seiðr. It was the only way to shape it out of a single solid piece of wood.”

Káta’s eyes widened at the knowledge, and she quickly turned back to the instrument, scanning it for joins and finding that it was indeed without a single join. She smiled, half laughing. “I think I can safely say that it’s the most uncommon harp to ever exist.” Loki’s eyes danced with his smile.

Káta turned to the harp once more, adjusting her position and settling it more comfortably against her shoulder, and set her fingers to the strings.

The first sound that rippled through the clearing was like the musical form of water rippling across a lake at dawn.

Loki watched, entranced by sight and sound, as Káta closed her eyes and began to sing, her fingers dancing with the strings, pouring forth so hauntingly sweet a melody that his heart might have ached had there been room amongst his happiness for it.

With a flutter of wings, a chorus of birds burst out from the surrounding foliage, their voices joining Káta’s song as the sang on, the creatures settling in the trees and on the grass about them, one brave individual coming to perch atop the column, its feathered breast swelling with music.

Loki watched the birds, stunned and delighted, although not able to keep his attention on them overlong when there was the vision of Káta to be observed.

Eventually, the song finished, and Káta put out her hand for the brave little chap atop the column to hop down onto. It wittered to her for a few moments, then fluttered away over to Loki, perching on his knee, and peeping up at him with such blind audacity, that Loki could not help but laugh.

“I like birds,” he murmured, reaching out to gently tickle the little fellow on his knee under his neck. The bird let out a sound that seemed to be its equivalent of a cat’s purr, and hopped onto his fingers. “They have so much freedom.” He lifted up his hand, and after flirting its tail, the bird fluttered off up into the sky, away with its fellows. He glanced towards Káta, and then pulled at the grass between them. “Except when they’re caged,” his expression became sorrowful for a moment, but then a dry smile came to his lips. “I used to free them from their cages when I was little. I hated seeing them behind their gilded bars, pining for the open sky. I think by the time I was seventy everyone in Valhalla had just about given up on the idea of keeping them as pets.” He laughed softly to himself and Káta smiled affectionately.

“Well,” she said quietly, “in that case, I think we have some work to do tomorrow.”

Loki glanced at her in question, but the only answer he received was the promise in her smile.

 

The following day, Káta led Loki through the city to a large building near Mærsalr. As they neared the boundaries of the complex, Loki did not need to ask why they were there, for the calls and chirruping of the birds within were near to deafening, such were their numbers.

His expression was dark as he turned to Káta, and she finally gave him the answer he had asked for the previous day.

“This is the home of a bird enthusiast. I don’t know his name, but he and his wife like to keep songbirds.”

“It’s a prison.” Loki replied shortly. He moved forwards, and before she knew what was happening both she had Loki were invisible.

Káta remained where she was, taken aback by the sudden change, and not quite sure where all her limbs were, or, indeed, where Loki was, until his cool hand closed about hers, and drew her after him.

Together they made their way through the estate, searching for the aviaries where the birds would be kept, led by the ever increasing volume of their discordant songs. Eventually, they came to a round, open pavilion, the gaps between its pillars hung with pale gold silk drapes. They slipped between the silks, and hidden by them, Káta found herself visible once more, as was Loki by her side.

His grip on her hand tightened, and together they surveyed the octagonal aviary before them. It was a beautiful construction to be sure, for it was delicately crafted, the gaps in the wooden lattice carefully carved and pierced in a tessellating design of repeating knotwork, beyond which all manner of birds fluttered and perched; but Káta knew that all of its beauty was lost on Loki, whose expression of disgust was explanation enough of his feelings.

The birds filling the aviary went beyond count, and there were more species within the eight walls than Káta had ever seen in any wild gathering – even when the dryads had sung. Some were exotically coloured and feathered, with great decorative plumes and swishing tails, whilst others were drab even without comparison to their flashy fellows, but every single one had a beautiful voice.

Four out of the eight sides of the aviary opened, and Loki crossed to the furthest two, his face near the gaps in the latticework as he took hold of the catches. Káta moved to take a place by the others.

“Fly free,” he whispered.

Together they lifted the catches, which were simple enough for any person to open, but impossible for a caged bird, and pushed the doors open.

There was a brief pause as the birds’ singing stopped, and then a great joyous chorus blasted from the incongruous flock, deafening Loki and Káta, and every single one took off in a great bass thundering of beating wings, shooting between the silk drapes and off up into the sky and free air.

Káta was laughing with delight, and a beatific smile filled Loki’s features as they took in their escape. Káta glanced towards him, and saw a mournful yearning in his eyes that she well understood. She knew that it was the inherent freedom of birds and the sky that drew Loki towards them. He, who had felt trapped all his life, yearned for the release of his bonds. It only seemed natural that he should choose to shapeshift into the form of a bird.

She reached across to take his hand, squeezing it with a smile as Loki turned to meet her gaze, the yearning in his eyes replaced with a very different type of longing desire, before they both turned to see the birds out of sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay for yet more squishy feels :3  
> I do hope they're not getting boring.  
> AND THE HARP! 8D This may or may not be a gratuitous inclusion due to the fact that I actually play the harp... XP But Loki has spent SO LONG planning and waiting for the right moment to give it to her!!! *squees* The harp that Loki gives Káta isn't actually modelled at all along the lines of the relics and depictions of Norse harps (such as the harp found in the Sutton Hoo burial, which looks more like a lyre with a bow), but rather on a Celtic lap harp. This is primarily because a Celtic lap harp is closer to the harps that I know and play, so I can give a more accurate description of playing the instrument and the sound etc. than I would for the Sutton Hoo style of harp/lyre. And the image of it is too strongly imprinted in my mind in any case XP  
> Also, Loki and birds!!! X3
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it! :D
> 
> Please give Kudos and/or comment :) Tell me what you like or don’t like :)  
> Also, if you like this story, or any of my other ones, and you want access to sneak previews on chapters that I'm working on, Like my Facebook page, or Follow my Twitter :)  
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	32. Delightful Diversions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki and Káta take a journey out of Asgard to take part in the delights of a harvest festival in Vanaheimr.

Several of the following days were spent apart due to necessity on Loki’s behalf, for he had some duties to execute about the palace and Káta was pleasurably enough occupied in testing out her new harp, delighted by the brightness of its tone, and the deep mellow resonances of its lower notes. It was the sweetest voiced instrument she had ever set fingers to.

She was curled up amongst the pillows on her bed, the harp in her lap, the intricacy of the decal drawing her attention every now and then. It was hard to keep such a gift a secret from Rúna, especially when the music went ringing down the hallways carrying with it the sound and song of the forest, and Káta soon enough found herself pounced on by her friend.

Rúna paused long enough only to exclaim over the beauty of the instrument, and experimentally pluck a string that not only hummed with the song of the instrument but also with the sigh of the wind, rich with the mellow voice of the wood, before she turned on Káta with a blaze of excitement in her eyes, overflowing with questions.

“Well?” she asked expectantly.

“‘Well’ what?” Káta replied, getting up from her bed and setting the harp carefully in the corner she had cleared specifically for it, and slipping over the forest green velvet cover Loki had also provided.

Rúna bounced impatiently on Káta’s bed and pouted. “Don’t think you can fool me like you can fool the rest of them, Káta – I _know_ there’s something between you two.”

Káta rolled her eyes, but came and sat beside her friend anyway, Rúna moving up to make some space. “There is nothing between us, Rúna; how many times do I have to tell you?”

Káta sighed and glanced over to Rúna whose eyebrows were raised disbelievingly. She gave a pointed glance towards the harp in the corner. “Oh, so I suppose it’s perfectly normal for princes to give harps to women that they don’t have feelings for and aren’t involved with. Silly me! I really must try and remember that.” She folded her arms.

Káta frowned and pursed her lips at Rúna’s sarcasm. “It’s –” she had been about to say ‘nothing’, but the harp was far from nothing and she refused to say it was, even to get Rúna off her back. “You don’t –” she stopped again and growled in frustration. “It’s not like that, Rúna. We’re more than friends, but we’re not lovers.” She paused. “I don’t deny that I like him… The way he thinks –” Káta gestured wordlessly, her expression awestruck, and her tone filled with the smile that had suddenly spread across her face, “and who he is, and who he could be. There’s so much in him. He…he has this wildness about him – _in_ him – being with him makes you feel like anything is achievable if only you have the audacity to try. Obstacles are opportunities to him. Like everything set before him is just this enormous playground to have as much fun in as possible.” Káta blushed, suddenly aware that she had said too much. “But we’re not lovers,” she reiterated firmly.

“Uhuh.” Rúna sucked on her teeth disbelievingly. “And how much do you think a harp like that costs? Even ‘more-than-friends’ don’t spend that kind of gold on each other, Káta.”

Káta’s colour deepened and she fiddled with the corner of a pillow. “He made it for me, actually,” she muttered, her cheeks flushing with a mixture of pleasure and embarrassment.

Rúna sat gawping at her friend in stunned silence for a full minute. “He _made_ it for you?” she asked incredulously. “ _Prince Loki_ _made a harp for you?_ ”

Káta nodded, and grinned sheepishly, glancing up at her still dumbfounded friend. “He’s nicer than people think.” She smiled as a collection of recollected memories of Loki’s sweetness rose to her mind, her eyes focused on her hands once more. “He’s utterly unlike anyone I’ve ever known.” Then she remembered herself, blushing crimson to the very tips of her ears, and busily plumped the cushion, attempting nonchalance and fearing what Rúna would say.

Rúna seemed to be shocked out of her usual cheekiness however, for she leant forwards, taking Káta’s hands and gazing earnestly into her eyes. “I don’t care what you call it, but don’t ever let him go, Káta.”

Káta blinked, astonished by the sudden change in Rúna’s mood, then half-smiled. “I hardly think I could stop him if he really wanted to leave. He is a god, remember.”

Rúna scoffed, ignoring the flippancy of her friend’s reply. “I’ve seen the way you two look at each other. He wouldn’t leave unless you made him.”

Káta raised a half-hearted eyebrow of disbelief, but her shyly hopeful smile spoke of her true feelings. Rúna beamed.

Then Káta suddenly seemed to become aware of the notions they were entertaining, all dreamy expressions vanishing to be replaced with a slightly panicked but serious expression as she abruptly sat up, brandishing a stern finger at Rúna.

“But none of this signifies anything, Rúna; ok?”

Rúna shook her head slightly, unable to help but let out a breath of laughter. “Very well. You have my word.”

Káta nodded and smiled.

 

Later, Káta paced the gardens aimlessly, fretfully giving serious consideration to her feelings for Loki for the first time since he had revised her dislike for him. She had come so close to admitting that which she already knew deep down in her heart a number of times over the past month, but such an admission came with its attendant caveat, and she had done her best to ignore the painful knowledge that she had properly realised on the roof of Valhalla.

Determined to keep it at bay, she pushed the whole tangle of her thoughts away and strode off out of the gardens, plunging into the markets beyond with a view to crowding out the knowledge with all the thought-obliterating bustle and commotion that the markets provided.

On her way she passed by the home of the bird keeper that they had emancipated of his throstles the day before, and was somewhat gratified to hear the mild uproar of his continued fury echoing within the walls of his garden. Eventually his shriek was punctuated by the sound of what Káta guessed to be a vase smashing, and she hoped that it was an expensive one.

Making a mental note to pass the information on to Loki, she passed on with a smile on her face.

 

“Do you know the way to Vanaheimr?” Káta asked the moment Loki appeared in her room the next day.

Loki blinked, surprised by the oddness of her query as he sat at the chair near her desk. “Yes.”

Káta smiled. “Good.”

Loki eyed Káta’s clothing, which was very different to her usual mode of attire. She wore a deep sleeved dress that just capped her shoulders, with a full skirt that flared when she turned, the heavy wool dyed her favourite shade of pale green, the hems bearing a thick band of knotwork embroidery. “Am I to assume that by your question and the style of your dress that we are bound for Vanaheimr today?”

Káta nodded with a grin. “You’re not just a pretty face then,” she replied with a teasing wink, then pointed to her desk where a leaf of parchment lay. “I saw it in the market yesterday; I thought it would be fun.”

Loki grinned, turning to pick it up, the paper informing him of a harvest festival to be held in Vanaheimr near the Asgard portal. He nodded, looking up from the poster. “Well, I must say dressing like us suits you. It’s how you should dress.”

Káta smiled at the compliment, a glimmer of mischief lighting her eyes. “I thought it best to look the part. They’re heavier and hotter than the ljósálfar dresses that I’m used to, but I like it.” She gave an experimental twirl.

Loki bit his lower lip pensively. “There’s one thing I would change though…”

Káta halted, her expression questioning. “Oh?”

Loki raised a finger, and the wool of the dress instantly changed to velvet. Loki frowned, eyeing his work critically. “Maybe two things,” he murmured, a second later a delicately fashioned belt of woven gold set with amber and peridots passing about Káta’s waist and settling at her hips.

Káta raised her eyebrows with an expression of amused incredulity at Loki. “You don’t think something this rich might…stand out a touch?” she asked, biting her lip to stop her grin from turning into a smirk.

The prince shook his head seriously, and his expression was such that Káta could not tell for certain whether he was in earnest or in jest. “The Vanir like to dress richly; you’ll fit in nicely like this.”

Káta shrugged, happy enough to defer to his superior knowledge in the matter, and gave the dress another swirl, moving faster and laughing in delighted surprise at the singularly beautiful rippling pattern that the velvet effected when moved.

Loki was brought out of his private appreciation of her figure by Káta stopping to stare expectantly at him. “What?”

“Your clothes, Loki,” Káta laughed, “there’s more fun in anonymity.”

Loki conceded the point, and a moment later, his usual heavy leathered clothes had been replaced with a much simpler wool ensemble comprising of a close fitting shirt, a long sleeveless tunic accented with velvet, and trousers in the fashion that the Vanir men favoured, all in his own colours.

Káta raised her eyebrow. “Anonymity, Loki,” she chided, eyeing the colours with an amused smile.

Loki heaved a put upon sigh, and changed the colours of his clothing to match those of her own. His shirt was pale gold, his trousers tan, and the tunic her shade of green. “Now we match,” he commented with a pleased smile.

Káta sighed, tutted, smiled, and shook her head; half exasperated, half amused. “Well, I suppose it’s better than before. Come on.”

 

It took less than the tenth part of a second for Loki to transport them to the portal that led to Vanaheimr. They were near the very southernmost tip of the forests that skirted the Asgard Mountains, and at the edge of the trees. Loki took Káta’s hand.

“For once _I’m_ the one leading _you_ through the trees,” he murmured with an amused smile, guiding her onwards into the belt of trees, and through them along the short walk to where the portal stood near the foot of the mountains.

There they stopped, regarding the portal for a moment. It was signified by nothing, save the presence of a great curved arch of massy grey stone, much weathered and grown over with lichens and moss. It stood in a faint clearing amongst the trees, and there seemed nothing remarkable about it, save the very oddness of its presence so far from any sign of civilisation. The stones that faced them carried a knotwork pattern worked into each individual stone, and the inside of the arch bore deeply cut runes that somehow seemed ancient.

Káta was familiar with the look of it. She had passed through a near identical portal in Álfheimr when she first journeyed to Asgard, although that one had been hewn of cream stone and stood in a meadow of wildflowers fringed with a spinney of silver birches, and had come out onto the southern plains of Asgard.

Together they walked beneath the arch, passing through the fabric between the worlds, their passage disturbing the rift such that it momentarily betrayed its presence by a faint ripple of the air, like the disturbed reflection of a still lake reflecting a silver sky.

 

They felt where they had come out before they saw or heard it, the light mist of a waterfall dampening their cheeks and pearling on their lashes and hair before they were able to see the waterfall thundering down before them.

In Vanaheimr the arch of the portal was less of an arch, and more of a natural triangular crevice in the stone behind a huge waterfall, the same runes carved into curve of the rock face. The falls tumbled down before their eyes, and the stone beneath their feet was slippery with water and mossy algae that had grown there on the moisture slicked stone.

Loki took Káta’s hand once more, and gestured to his left with his head, the sound of the falls too loud for words to be distinguished in its roar. Gingerly they walked along the ledge, taking care not to misstep, and eventually they came out from the shadow of the waterfall, and into the sunlight. Making their way lightly along and over the huge damp boulders that served as borders to either side of the lake that the huge falls thundered into, Loki and Káta were afforded a glimpse of their intended destination.

The falls were at the edge of a steeply formed cliff-face that rose up to form part of the mountains behind it. Away and beyond them Vanaheimr opened up, and the lake, although skirted with trees, was not in a true forest. The lake’s edge gave way to a green sward, which in turn narrowed to a winding track that snaked through the trees and out to a great green lawn beyond where they could already see the colours of fluttering pennants from the festival.

Káta picked up speed at the sight of the festival so near, and scrambled with animalistic grace that was far from ladylike across the boulders, making good use of both her hands and feet, her skirts tucked into her belt and exposing a most indecorous amount of leg. The speed of her eagerness was such that it took Loki somewhat by surprise, and he was left a good distance behind, although he did not begrudge the view it afforded him, and was more than impressed by her dexterity and climbing ability. She moved without scruple, only with the intention of reaching her destination, and the resulting economy and fluidity of her movement was entrancing to the eye.

Káta reached the ground first, and after rearranging her skirts stood hopping impatiently from foot to foot, jiggling a little to the faint strains of music brought to her on the wind from the festival while she waited for Loki to finish his descent. The liveliness of the music had awoken an itch to dance in her feet, and she was eager to start.

Loki barely had time to begin laughing at her impatience as his feet touched the ground before she took his hand and whisked him off through the trees, following the sounds of the music and the ever increasing chatter of happy voices.

“Calm down, Káta!” Loki exclaimed, half laughing, half panting as they neared the end of the path and the edge of the festival.

Káta paused long enough to turn and pout endearingly at him, and he took her hand, wrapping it over his arm like a proper gentleman.

“Let’s walk together,” he murmured, brushing back a stray curl that had fallen into her eyes.

Káta smiled softly, and Loki could have sworn that the faintest of blushes had risen to her cheeks at his gesture. “Like civilised beings, you mean?” she asked, a hint of laughter on the edge of her words.

Loki chuckled. “Yes, like civilised beings.”

Káta smiled, and gave an assenting twitch of her eyebrows, the pair of them walking onwards sedately. “Clearly I need to make you less civilised,” she murmured slyly as they came out from the shadows of the trees, the field that the festival was in opening up before them.

Loki’s eyes widened in mild astonishment, but did not have a chance to pursue the tantalising matter, for Káta had disengaged her arm from his, turned and skipped spiritedly off into the milling crowds with a coy glance at him over her shoulder.

Loki shook his head, his eyes slightly narrowed, well aware that she was purposefully being provocative, and fully intending to take her to task on it. With a grin, he gave chase, pausing only to observe the necessary courtesy and incline his head in a small bow to a couple of passing Vanir before he raced after Káta.

 

The festival was everything and more that Káta had hoped and expected. Loki had caught her easily enough, although not after a good deal of dodging between the stalls, by which time they were laughing and breathless together. It was only then that she had a chance to properly look around and take in her surroundings, and found that they were in the heart of the festival.

Stalls selling all sorts of curios and harvest trinkets abounded – straw dolls woven from the fallen hay, intricately carved nut crackers and huge fruit bowls, garlands of painstakingly woven flowers, silky ribbons, silver bells, festival favours, and all manner of other objects that defied listing – outnumbered only by the stalls selling every kind of snack and delicacy that a person could think of.

Káta was delighted by the sight of a stall selling the delicate rose cakes that the dryads were especially good at making, and dragged Loki over for him to try them. Tasting them had filled her with a whole host of memories of home, and she had chattered nineteen to the dozen to Loki about them, the prince listening with fond interest.

Loki bought her a festival favour in the form of a prettily crafted plait of dark green ribbons set with gaily ringing golden bells, and tied it neatly about her ankle so that Káta’s every movement was accompanied by the merry chimes of the bells.

There were stalls selling clothing and jewellery, various handicrafts and beautifully glazed pottery, toys for the numerous children that rushed between the groups and pairs of strolling adults, and a good deal of strange little pocket instruments that fascinated Káta no end.

Curious to both of them, however, was the fact that there was evidence of seiðr everywhere they looked. Both knew that the Vanir were where the art had originated, but neither had suspected of it being so prevalent in the race. It was being used to light cook fires and transfer large or heavy items, necessary to the games of some of the children, and used to erect marquees over the stalls. Loki, used to being despised for practicing seiðr all his life, found it the strangest thing to be surrounded by so many men and women openly practicing it. It was like the world had been turned upside down.

 

Káta and Loki browsed together for some time, content to investigate and soak up the lively atmosphere of the cheerful crowd. At length, however, they were noticed by a group of the Vanir, richly dressed in lightly coloured silks and velvets. A conversation seemed to ensue amongst them, and eventually a flamboyantly dressed Vanir man who wore a sweeping blue robe the colour of his own sky blue eyes open over his tunic and trousers broke away from the group.

He approached them, smiling widely. “Forgive my intrusion, but I am correct in supposing you are not from Vanaheimr?” he enquired politely.

Káta smiled and nodded.

“We came through the Asgard portal,” Loki supplied.

“Ah!” the man exclaimed brightly, “that explains it. My companions and I were discussing where it might be that you were from.” He gestured towards the large gaily chattering group he had come from. “We couldn’t quite make up our minds – neither of you seemed to belong quite to one place, if you will forgive the impertinence of such an observation. We were all so divided that I was determined to come and ask.”

Káta smiled. The man was decidedly friendly and polite, as were most of the Vanir, and she found it interesting to see just how his mannerisms differed to those of Freyja. Perhaps she behaved more like the Æsir due to her time spent with them, for although kind, she was a good deal more reserved than her countryman. His enthusiasm, too, was foreign to her, but Káta thought perhaps that such behaviour was not becoming in a major goddess. “We came on an impulse, I only found out about the festival yesterday,” she said, making conversation.

“Blessed be the gods!” exclaimed their companion. “Then it was meant to be that you are here now! It would have been such a shame for you to miss such an occasion. How are you finding it?”

“Very enjoyable,” Káta replied, exchanging a smile with Loki. The man watched the glance with faint interest, and then seemed to remember something.

“Forgive me, I am forgetting my manners.” He executed a flourishing bow, as was the custom of the Vanir, and Loki returned it, Káta quickly observing the movement and imitating it. “My name is Brosa Unnason. To whom do I have the honour of addressing?”

“I am Finnr Fróðason, and this is Káta Bótheiðrdóttir,” Loki replied smoothly. Káta did all but gape in astonishment at the prince, dumbfounded by his choice of name and sure that she had misheard him.

“Well met, Finnr,” replied Brosa, “and well met, Káta.”

“Well met, Brosa,” they chorused in return, Káta just managing to gather her scrambled faculties to complete the formality.

“Is there anything you are yet to do?” Brosa asked, relaxed again now that the expected courtesies had been observed.

“Dancing!” Káta exclaimed eagerly, her eyes bright. Loki smiled to himself at her enthusiasm.

Brosa laughed. “That shall begin after the midday meal. But I would wager on your being asked to dance once the revels begin in proper, Káta.” Brosa’s eyes twinkled as he smiled, before he turned to Loki. “Your friend is quite as pretty as the Goddess Iðunn; I have often seen her in Vanaheimr on her travels.”

Loki smiled blandly, and Káta stifled a giggle. “I dare say she is, though I have never seen the Goddess,” Loki replied smoothly, “and I defy any of the Æsir to find a more beautiful daughter of Yggdrasil.”

Káta blushed, an inexplicable thrill that was quite separate from Loki’s compliment running through her. Brosa’s eyes widened at the near blasphemous nature of Loki’s comment, but he seemed to have a fine sense of humour about him, and laughed heartily. “Aye, we are all children of the great World Tree, but you, Káta, are quite ten times the credit to your parents than any of us here can claim.” He bowed slightly.

The warmth in Káta’s cheeks rose, and she demurred the compliment as graciously as was possible through her confusion and embarrassment. “I thank you for your kind words…but I beg to remind you that all beauty is merely temporary; it as earthly as the spring flowers and summer fruits that we celebrate today – they have their time, and come winter are long gone.”

“I did not refer merely to physical beauty, Káta,” Loki replied gently, his eyes meeting hers and delving into their depths for a world-tilting moment.

“No, indeed, I am sure you did not, Finnr,” exclaimed Brosa. “The very graciousness and wit of your reply assures me of that, Káta. And Finnr does your interest lie in the dancing as well?”

Loki laughed softly. “No, I must admit I find the seiðr everyone is using interests me more.”

Brosa’s eyes lit up. “You practice the art too?”

Loki nodded. “My mother was one of the Vanir,” he lied smoothly, “I seem to have inherited some of her talent. I find it curious, coming from Asgard, to see so many practitioners here – especially amongst the men.”

Brosa laughed heartily once more. “Yes, you Asgardians have some strange notions regarding seiðmaðr, but here you see there is no stigma. We do not consider it unmanly to manipulate others with our gifts. Manipulation is not only a woman’s tool but a man’s as well, and it renders us neither weak nor helpless. There are many people I think you should like to meet, if you will allow me to introduce them to you.”

Loki smiled and nodded. “By all means!”

Brosa beamed, pleased.

“Brosa!” called a woman’s voice from the group. “What are you doing, keeping these poor people to yourself? You’ll make them think all us Vanir as rude as pigs.” A woman detached herself from the group, dressed magnificently in pale yellow velvet, and advanced towards them. Her long curly hair was like a raven mane over her shoulders, and she smiled merrily, for all her chastising words.

“My wife, Eðla,” Brosa said, introducing the woman with a smile as she bowed deeply, Loki and Káta returning the gesture, “Finnr, and Káta of Asgard.”

“So you’re Asgardians!” exclaimed Eðla brightly. “Well I never! Come and join us – I assume Brosa has not invited you yet? He can be so rude sometimes.”

She led them smilingly towards the group where they were introduced to each person about the circle in turn with much bowing and exclamations over their origins, before being settled down to join in the conversation.

Loki found the friendliness more than a little disconcerting, and sat rigidly beside Káta for a few moments before she slipped her hand into his, squeezing it reassuringly. He began to relax a little after that, and eventually had begun to talk as much as she had, cheerfully chatting and arguing with their new Vanir acquaintances as though they had been friends a hundred years.

 

They had been with the group barely half an hour when Brosa halted in the middle of a sentence comparing two vintages of mead, and clapped Loki on the shoulder with an exclamation. “Come, Finnr! There are the very people I said I would introduce to you! Káta, if you would excuse us?”

So saying, he stood, inclined his head towards Káta, and then took Loki by the arm and led him off. All of the men in the circle followed suit, having learnt of Loki’s interest in seiðr, all keen to take part in the demonstration and discussion that Brosa said he had planned, and the size of the group was whittled by nearly half.

Káta, briefly alone for a moment, was finally allowed to reflect on Loki’s comments earlier when Brosa had first approached her. She was not to be left to her own devices for long, however, for the gaggle women began talking boisterously once more, drawing her into their pursuits and gaiety.

 

Káta glanced up at times from the Vanir women she was talking with, now ensconced on a low series of stools, to see Loki through the forest of the stalls, deep in fascinated discussion with the small cluster of Vanir men that Brosa had introduced him to and surrounding by Brosa’s interestedly watching friends, exchanging tips on seiðr and demonstrating their prowess if the strange happenings about and between them were anything to go by. It was the first time she had ever seen Loki truly relaxed in the company of other people, save his urchin friends, and Fróði and Berghildr. Other times he was always uptight and constantly on edge – always observing; even with Kvasir he retained a certain distance. Káta recognised the tendency, for it was one of her own; constant vigilance – always trying to pre-empt the actions and behaviour of those around, just in case. It was tiring.

It gladdened her heart to see him so relaxed, animatedly talking and gesturing expansively with his hands, demonstrating his seiðr openly and without reserve, and laughing, actually _laughing_. It was a miracle. None of their new companions knew who they truly were, and the freedom it seemed to be giving Loki was transformative.

 

Later they all sat together for the midday meal in a huge laughing group spread out across the grass, picnicking in a manner that was quite foreign to both Káta and Loki. They had dispensed with the need for honorific titles soon after being assimilated into the friendly group, the gregariousness of the Vanir soon overcoming their strict observance of courtesies. It had only seemed natural to the group that they invite their new friends to join them on the green for their repast. Picnicking seemed to be the accustomed manner of eating for all the Vanir, for all about the meadow people had settled in large groups, all chattering animatedly amongst themselves.

The bounties of the harvest were laid out in the centre of each group, tottering piles of cakes and pies piled so high that it was impossible to see those opposite in the circle. Platters of various meats all cooked in half a hundred ways were at each person’s elbows, and enormous bowls of fruit circulated, filled with so copious an selection that it was nigh on impossible to make a choice of which to eat first.

Loki and Káta had been seated apart by their new friends, but when their constant glances towards each other were noticed their hosts graciously and tactfully rearranged the seating. Neither knew the cause to be themselves, but neither was about to complain when they found themselves side by side.

After that they became something of an object of subtle observation for their new acquaintances as they put more food on each other’s plates than on their own, constantly pressing the other to try a bite of a certain fruit tart that everyone was exclaiming over, or a nibble of particularly sharp cheese. The general consensus amongst the Vanir was that he who asked Káta to dance later would face the wrath of her companion, and none wished to tempt fate with such an adversary.

Just as there was food aplenty, so too were there drinks. Kegs and barrels of clear wines and fine meads made their way into the goblets of the jolly assembly, increasing the ebullience of their chatter and mirth. Káta drank enough that the usually pale apple-blossom pink of her cheeks was heightened, just as the merriment of her eyes was. At her side, Loki had a rather fine view of her brightened complexion, and laughing eyes, and found that the alcohol had started to take something of an effect upon his own demeanour so that he smiled and laughed a good deal more than he had done in years while in company.

 

After the meal, Káta and Loki were left to themselves, and for a precious time they took each other hither and thither amongst the stalls, each showing the other the discoveries of the morning, Loki talking expansively with wonder in his eyes about all the things the Vanir men had been able to do with their seiðr, and the ideas it had given him.

It was as they passed by a woodcarver’s stall that Káta caught sight of a beautifully rendered replica of a tiny bird in wood, every line and detail perfectly placed. Upon seeing it she was determined to get it for Loki and quickly approached the old carver while Loki was still occupied gazing in the other direction at something.

Loki had caught sight of a group of hamadryads grossing the green opposite where he stood, and thoughts of Káta’s father rose to his mind. Hamadryads were said to have great knowledge, able to share what they knew between themselves in some sort of arboreal communion so that what one knew, all knew. Even if they knew nothing of Káta, Loki thought they might be able to discern something by touching her, for they were also possessed of the curious ability to learn and gain knowledge about that which they touched. It was said that the ability was born of their caring for the plants under their care and within their dominion, and that over the centuries it had progressed and evolved to the extent that it no longer applied solely to plants.

Káta quickly negotiated the transaction for the little wooden bird, in too much of a hurry to bother haggling, constantly glancing over her shoulder to where Loki stood with his back to her, apparently engrossed in thought.

The Vanir carver noticed her concern and smiled. “A gift is it?” he asked kindly.

Káta nodded fervently, beaming. “I think I can make it a little better for you,” he whispered, reaching into the mass of carvings on the table with the unerring instinct of their creator, and extracting a second tiny bird the exact identical to the one already half wrapped in paper tissue before him. “They are a pair,” he explained. “See?” he took up the first bird and turned it about so that it and the other he held faced each other. Then he joined them, the line where they met very nearly indistinguishable, so that the bowed forehead of each rested against the others.

Káta let out a soft sigh of delight.

“It’s an eternity knot,” he said, pointing at the small plinth that each bird stood on, the pattern of which had now seamlessly combined now the carvings were joined.

“I’ll take them both!” Káta exclaimed with a quick glanced back over her shoulder to see that Loki was still mercifully occupied. “How much?”

The carver smiled, “For young love, nothing at all.”

Káta blushed crimson, but could not find a reason in her to deny his assumption. “I couldn’t possibly –!” she began to exclaim, but the carver hushed her with a gnarled finger against his lips.

“I insist. Let an old man know he has contributed to something greater than himself.”

Káta hesitated to argue further with him given his words, but refused to back down entirely, and paid him at least for the original bird, thanking him profusely before she returned to Loki’s side.

Loki had just decided upon leaving the matter alone following a protracted debate with himself about whether or not he ought to approach the hamadryads when Káta reappeared at his elbow.

He turned to gaze at her. “Your cheeks are flushed,” he murmured, his eyes flickering between her still rosy cheeks and her momentarily downcast eyes. “Is it too sunny for you?”

“No, no, I’m fine,” Káta reassured him. “Here.” She produced one of the birds, placing it in his hands. “For you.”

Loki’s surprised expression became one of transfixed delight as he ran his fingers over every detail of the carving, lingering over the complicated twists of the eternity knot. He turned to her with a faintly questioning glance, and Káta smiled at his perceptiveness.

She took out the second bird and reached over, aligning hers with his. “They’re a pair,” she murmured.

Loki’s smile widened. “I like them as a pair.”

 

At long last, the dancing began. A group quickly formed in the centre of the lawn, where a large oval of grass had been left clear, and in the centre of which a huge bonfire had been laid, taller than any person present, which would be lit later when night had fallen.

The musicians had a wide variety of instruments – fiddles, flutes, pipes and whistles, bells, drums of all sizes, and even a few harps – and set to, beating out a melody that instantly drew people from all over the field, and dancing their way into the already leaping throng of whirling skirts and deft footwork around the bonfire.

Listening to the music was like having pure energy flooding her veins, and Káta, after hesitating a moment by Loki’s side, and seeing that he was not about to take the lead, leapt into the laughing dancing crowd with a ringing of the bells about her ankle. The music was full of youth and newness, and the dance a frolicking caper. Káta laughed as she jigged and spun, her arms linked with those who happened on either side of her at times and at others reaching skywards or twirling about her body.

Loki watched her from the side, one foot tapping in time to the beat, a smile spread over his face as he drank in the vivacity and artlessness of her movements, their very naturalness better suited to the dance and the music and the occasion than any premeditated steps.

Káta eventually broke away from the leaping fray, for she had watched Loki remain where she had left him, and made her way towards him as though on wings, her face glowing with joy and the heat of her exertions.

“Dance with me,” she cried, reaching out to take his hands as the musicians struck up a new tune, the dancers quickly rearranging themselves into two circles, one within the other, each person finding themselves a partner.

“Káta, I don’t think it’s a –” Loki began, but found himself cut off by her exhilarated exclamation.

“Don’t think; just dance!” she pulled him unresisting after her, and within seconds they were part of the dance, cavorting and whirling with the best of them.

Loki’s reservation remained for a few moments longer into the dance, but Káta’s enthusiasm was catching, and it took little enough persuasion in the form of an encouraging glance from her eyes for him to finally shake off the last of his inhibitions.

Káta’s eyes widened in faint surprise at the transformation Loki seemed to have undergone, for his reluctance conquered, he danced gracefully with an astounding athleticism, never hesitating, each step and movement perfectly placed, a smile starting to spread across his features as he let the beat of the music enter him.

Loki caught the surprise in her expression, and grinned devilishly.

“Never knew I could dance, did you,” he commented as they joined hands and spun together between another couple.

“No, I most certainly did not,” Káta laughed. “It might just be the best surprise you’ve ever given me.”

Loki’s eyebrows twitched. “Another challenge?” he asked archly.

“What else?” Káta replied, grinning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ASKJFDALFKJ;AD WHERE TO START?  
> So, MASSIVE chapter! :D I considered splitting it in two, but decided that it worked best as it is.  
> And I uploaded it early because I finished two assignments due this week in about two or three days each, and am proud and happy. Although I should probably not make a habit of leaving them so late... Such is the life of a student.
> 
> I decided to make the Vanir a very polite race. They have very grandiose methods of respect, but are really friendly people. You probably don't want to get on the wrong side of them though XP They're also a bit more cultured I guess you could say than the Asgardians as regards seidr. In the mythology using magic is regarded as unmanly, even though Odin actually does use magic. I decided to make it so that for the Vanir, where most magic actually comes from, they find it perfectly normal for both men and women to use it.  
> Just to explain the aliases Loki uses when they're talking with Brosa. Loki chose "Finnr" because it's the same Finnr from the story in Chapter 14: "Book Covers, Lies, and Rules", and "Fróðason" literally means Froði's son :3. The surname Loki gave Káta, "Bótheiðrdóttir" has a meaning that I derived from her mother's duties. It literally means daughter of "fee, compensation, remedy, improvement" and "brilliance, beauty". So using the "remedy/improvement" aspect along with "brilliance, beauty" it links to what the apples do to the lost youth of the AEsir. But the beauty part also is just a compliment to Káta XD
> 
> And of course Loki and Káta are just steadily behaving more and more like lovers X3 More on that in later chapters ;)  
> AND THE CARVED BIRDS <3 <3 <3 I thought it about time that Káta actually gave Loki a tangible gift. Her main gifts to him so far have been her time and understanding, and Loki expresses himself through gifts because it's easier, but seriously, it can't all be one sided gift giving XP  
> And yes, Loki is a fantastic dancer; this is my personal headcanon. XP
> 
> "seiðmaðr" is the word for male magic users  
> Eðla - means "noble"  
> Brosa Unnason - means to smile, and, son of "to enjoy, be happy with, be content"
> 
> I hope you enjoyed it :D
> 
>  
> 
> Please give Kudos and/or comment :) Tell me what you like or don’t like :)  
> Also, if you like this story, or any of my other ones, and you want access to sneak previews on chapters that I'm working on, Like my Facebook page, or Follow my Twitter :)  
> https://www.facebook.com/josephinetomkinsauthor  
> https://twitter.com/jtomkinsauthor


	33. Confessions Under the Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki begins to give voice to that which has begun to grow in his heart, until words, he discovers, are sometimes not enough.

Káta and Loki at last sat down, breathless from the vigour of their dancing. They had not stopped since they first began, and the first shades of night had now begun to fall, the huge bonfire lit, as well as a dozen smaller ones scattered throughout the festival.

“Why did you say your name was Finnr?” asked Káta, pulling her hair up from her neck to cool herself down and winding a ribbon she had bought about it, brushing a few stray strands out of her eyes. She knew why he had chosen Fróðason and thought of how touched Fróði would be to know.

“I thought you said anonymity was more fun? I must say I agree.”

Káta raised an eyebrow. “Loki, don’t be obtuse,” the prince cracked a grin, “I meant why did you choose Finnr? Of all the names you could have chosen, why that?”

Loki’s smiling countenance was replaced with a look of great pensiveness as he gazed through the still dancing revellers and into the great bonfire beyond, the light flickering unevenly across his features. “I don’t know,” he replied at great length. “It just…came into my mind.” He shook his head uncomprehendingly.

Káta blinked and smiled.

 

They remained where they sat for a long while, chatting and laughing over the day’s events, relating certain anecdotes from when they had been apart. The log beneath them served well enough as a perfunctory sort of bench, and as they talked the night darkened from plum to deepest blue overhead, and the light of the bonfires grew in comparison, the moon a silver orb suspended in the velvet darkness above.

Then they were pulled back into the dancing once more by their new acquaintances and friends, and laughing allowed the untamed thrill of the music to overwhelm them again, whirling and stamping and dancing amongst all the other bodies enthralled to the beat and pulse of the rhythm.

After a while the wildness died down out of the music, and instead the melodies surrounding them were much slower, steady, thrumming airs, the strains of which rose up into the night sky with the swirling eddies of cinders from the fires. The groups and lines broke down into couples of their own accord, none of them consciously thinking, just following the pull of the emotions that the music educed in them.

Loki and Káta came together, each holding the other close, all thought abandoned so that only feelings remained. Káta laid her head against Loki’s chest, and felt from the vibrations that he was humming. She could feel the movement of it travelling into the very centre of her, surpassing the mere physical sensation of it, and finding there something identical within her with which it joyfully combined.

They turned, slowly spinning on the spot, their eyes closed, bathed in the warmth of the great bonfire, content to simply be, there, in each other’s arms, together and at peace.

 

Loki and Káta lay together under the stars of the ordinary night sky at Káta’s well. When the music had slowed down to the faintest of background murmurs they had moved to sit together in silence by the edge of the bonfire, too immersed in the bubble that was each other to notice anyone or anything else, with no need for conversation. The wordless messages that passed between them were a communication on a deeper level that words paled beside.

Later they had stolen away into the darkness as the embers of the huge logs that had filled the main bonfire broke down, dislodging flaming motes that briefly spiralled up into the darkness before consuming themselves. Loki had followed Káta’s glowing form across the boulders and behind the waterfall, captivated by the unusual intensity of her radiance, and there had been no need to exchange words once they had passed through the portal regarding their intended destination, Káta placing her hand in his.

At Káta’s well the air was surprisingly mild, and the sky veiled with an endless multitude of stars that seemed to cast a silvery glow as bright as that of the huge moon.

“I used to try to count all the stars in the sky when I was little,” Káta murmured.

“And you’d always lose count?” Loki replied with a faint smile, tilting his head to meet Káta’s surprised glance.

“Yes.”

“I did too.”

Káta blinked in faint surprise at the idea of a young Loki leaning over his balcony, trying to count all the stars he could see from Valhalla. “It would have taken you even longer than me, up there with all the supernovas and extra galaxies,” she said softly, smiling.

“Why do you think I never managed it?” he asked, chuckling.

Káta grinned and shook her head, one hand idly passing across the sky above them as though to sweep up all the stars. “I used to want to gather them all up and put them in my pocket,” she whispered, laughing softly.

Loki continued to gaze at her for a few moments after her amusement had faded, and she bore his observation easily without question or discomfort, the glimmer of a smile in her serene eyes. “Who says you can’t?” he said softly at great length.

Káta blinked, her brows furrowing slightly. “Loki?”

Loki answered her with a gentle smile, sitting up, and staring into the diamond dappled heavens. He scanned them intently, Káta watching his movements with curiosity having sat up herself, and eventually reached up with his hand as though summoning something to him.

He remained thus for a good minute by the end of which Káta, her eyes darting between Loki and the sky above, could make out a single star growing ever brighter amongst the sparkling mass of its fellows. She took in a soft breath of amazement, realisation dawning on her as the star grew from the smallest pinprick of silver to a spot as large as the head of a pin.

Then it seemed to be descending, growing larger and larger, until finally a sizzling, white hot sphere the size of a grapefruit slowly sank down from the sky, and halted an inch above Loki’s open palm.

Loki brought the star closer, and between his hands continued to compress it further, his face set with concentration, the brightness of the star intensifying as it grew smaller, until it was barely larger than a quail’s egg.

Smiling, Loki turned to Káta and held out his hands in the cupped palms of which the star still floated.

Káta gazed at the compressed star hushed with awe. Then thought reasserted itself. “Loki, we can’t – you can’t just take a star?” she protested softly, half questioning.

“We can do whatever we want,” Loki murmured, smiling widely.

Káta continued to gaze at him with earnest concern, and Loki closed his eyes for a moment as he gently shook his head at her stubbornness. “It’s not part of a major constellation, Káta. I’m not that careless.”

She looked into his eyes with serious intentness for a few moments, and then allowed the smile she had been keeping at bay to spread across her face, her eyes fixed intently on his. “It’s beautiful.”

“Only for you,” Loki replied softly, smiling in return. “Take it.”

They both looked down at the star, breaking the burning connection that had bridged between their eyes. Káta put out her hands, and Loki placed the star in them.

In Loki’s hands the star had floated, but in Káta’s it dropped into her palms. Káta gasped softly, her mind suddenly filled with a sound the like of which she had never heard before. It was very high music, each note and peal like silver tapped glass, pure and echoing. Her eyes met Loki’s, filled with wonder as a tear slipped from one, her lips parted in a silent exhalation of astonishment. “What is this?” she asked softly, still enthralled by the song flooding her mind.

“All stars have their own song,” Loki replied with a smile, his voice seeming to come to her from a great distance. “When you touch them, you can hear it. When I was young my mother used to call them down for me to listen to.”

Káta blinked, still overtaken by the sheer awe of the star’s song.

Loki’s soft smile widened slightly, and he closed her hands over the star, holding hers with his. Káta could feel something happening in the space between their cupped hands, the song in her mind slowly fading, and when Loki lifted his hands away, she could see that he had set the star in a network of silver filigree so she could hold it without touching it and being enthralled by its song.

She smiled her thanks at the silent Loki, at last able to look more closely at the star he had given her. Where she had held it, her skin burned as though she had been holding ice, heat now flooding back to her skin. The star itself seemed quite serene in its silver setting, the light that it gave out unwavering and constant, and only just below blinding. It was so much more than stunning; not simply to look at, but as a gesture.

“Thank you, Loki,” she murmured, her eyes meeting his with a heartfelt expression.

Loki, meeting Káta’s eyes for a long moment, was suddenly overwhelmed by the depth of feeling in them and what it did to him, and quickly dropped his gaze. Káta looked about for somewhere safe to put the star, wanting to take Loki’s hand, but her dress was without pockets and she had not thought to bring a silk purse.

Distracted, Loki’s timidity vanished and he smiled, and with a flick of his fingers dispatched the star to her room.

Káta smiled at him, slipping her hand into his.

Loki stared at their entwined fingers for a long while, watching the interlocking of them as he drew a long, deep breath. “I…this…it’s special to me…being with you.” He murmured haltingly, his eyes moving from their hands to Káta’s eyes. “You free me…like you freed those birds. I…I get to be _me_ with you.”

Káta watched with understanding in her eyes, and smiled. “It wasn’t me who freed them – it was you. I only helped.” She gazed earnestly into his eyes, entreating him to understand and believe her.

Loki blinked and shook his head in dissent, but Káta quickly raised a hand to his lips before a single word could escape them.

“It was you.” She reiterated.

Loki held her gaze for a long time, silence flowing between them. Then something akin to acceptance seemed to seep into his eyes, and Káta smiled, letting her hand at last drop to her side.

“I heard him shouting, you know,” she murmured with a faint laugh at the memory.

“Heard who?”

“The owner of the birds…he smashed a vase.”

A rich throaty chuckle flooded the night’s silence as Loki laughed with sheer delight. “I should have liked to hear that.”

“And goad him further, no doubt,” Káta added dryly, though she was smiling. “ _That_ I would like to see.”

“Oh…I’m sure it can be arranged,” Loki purred. Káta laughed.

“Why am I not surprised?”

Loki smiled softly. “Because you know me,” he said gently. Káta turned to look at him, the gentleness of his tone awakening something more than curiosity in her. Loki smiled. “You know me more than any other.” His hand found hers unerringly in the darkness, and Káta’s feelings threatened to overwhelm her once more.

She was bereft of words to say, but somehow that felt right. Loki seemed to know it as well, to know what was in her mind and heart though only her eyes spoke it.

“I like this…” Loki murmured; his tone shy though his eyes were gazing fearlessly into hers. “This time we spend together. It’s good…” he faltered for a moment, “it’s special to me.” For once, Loki found his words to be inadequate. They were too plain; lacking in all that he felt. All that which motivated him to give them voice. There were no words within his knowledge to explain what it was that lay inside him so he let speech cease between them, the eloquence of whatever language it was that their eyes spoke all that they needed.

 

Later they lay side by side on their backs once more, the stars in the sky their blanket, somewhere between sleeping and waking.

“Tell me a story,” Loki requested. The soft murmur of his voice was the first proper noise either had heard in well over an hour, for in the glade silence reigned but for the ambient sounds of night.

Káta cast around for a moment, thinking, then settled a bit further into the grass as her mind alighted on a topic. “There was once a young boy who was misunderstood by everyone he met,” she began, “so much so that he was even misunderstood by himself…” An hour later, she finished, “And he finally realised that he had been worthy of love and respect all along. It was his to have, and no one else’s to take.” Loki remained silent as he had done throughout the entire telling, and Káta turned tentatively towards him.

Loki lay with his eyes fixed on the sparkling heavens above them, tears running in twin streams down his face from the corners of his eyes like falling stars. “I’ve never heard that story before,” he murmured, “and yet I know every line of it…every twist and turn…” he turned to her, his eyes so open there was no space left for him to feel vulnerable. “I know every line of it…except the end…” he gazed at her for a long moment in which neither of them seemed to breathe, and then rolled onto his other side, and was silent.

Káta waited on tenterhooks, encouraged by the lack of anger in Loki’s reaction, but concerned by his sudden withdrawal from her when he had been so open barely seconds before. She hesitated, watching his back, waiting for some sign that might help her figure out how he was feeling.

Slowly, she reached out, faltering for a moment mere inches from him, before she gently placed her hand on his left shoulder.

Loki made no sound, but his taut back abruptly shuddered with a deep, uneven breath, and his right hand slowly slid over his waist, his fingers reaching for hers.

Barely daring to breath, Káta ran her hand down Loki’s arm, taking his entreating fingers in hers. The moment she touched him, his fingers closed tightly around her hand, but not painfully, and drew her closer.

“How can you know the ending?” he whispered the words so softly she could barely catch them in the silence.

“I don’t,” she replied gently, squeezing his hand. “No one does. Endings are never endings; they’re just the beginnings of a new tale…and we can make them whatever we choose them to be.”

When he turned towards her Loki’s expression was torn between assenting realisation and disbelief, but the gentle squeeze he gave her hand was communication enough for Káta. She wriggled closer, curling along his side as they held hands, resting her head gently against his arm. “Whatever we choose,” he murmured.

“Whatever we choose,” Káta assented softly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *chucks the feels at you and runs*  
> Soo...this chapter has been giving me happy giggles and squishy faces and breathless flappy hands for so damn long. It has been a true test of my patience and self control that I didn't just upload about five chapters in one hit just so I could put this one up.  
> And yes, still no kiss *hides behind bullet proof armour*. The point is that they don't need a physical connection yet. IT WILL HAPPEN THOUGH. I PROMISE. Just not yet. But there shall be some interesting happenings in the upcoming chapters... Warning: we will be returning to angsty land with them. VERY angsty land. So gather your rosebuds while ye may. Because after the next chapter, we are plunging into darkness. Prepare the tissue boxes, and wrap yourself up in the squishiness from this chapter, cos you'll need it.
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoyed it :D
> 
>  
> 
> Please give Kudos and/or comment :) Tell me what you like or don’t like :) Reactions are always lovely to read, no matter how unintelligible ;)  
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	34. Stories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As his mind opens to new thoughts and possibilities, Loki's reading habits widen, and he can't help but share his elating new discoveries with Káta.

“Pick one.” Káta had brought an armful of love stories with her down to the well that day and now laid them out on the grass before Loki for him to choose.

Loki rolled over onto his chest, bits of grass in his hair, and began to peruse the titles with serious consideration as Káta picked the grass out of his hair, replacing the strands with flowers, giggling. “What are you doing to me, Káta?” he enquired lazily, his question redoubling Káta’s laughter.

“Decorating you.”

Loki let out a huff of laughter, shaking his head slightly, and continued examining the books, disregarding her continued application of flowers to his hair. “This one.” Loki tapped the gold embossed cover of one volume, passing it to Káta. He summoned a polished silver mirror to his hand, sitting up, and regarded his flower bedecked countenance seriously as Káta giggled.

With great deliberation, he selected the most beautiful bloom from them all, a twisting spray of apple blossom, and reached over, tucking it carefully into Káta’s hair. She smiled and opened the book, beginning to read.

The pages reflected the light back onto Káta’s face, illuminating her as she spoke. Her expression of concentration was endearingly familiar to Loki, and he idly summoned a book of blank pages and some charcoal pencils, beginning to sketch her as she read.

Loki was so deeply immersed in capturing a faithful replica of Káta as she sat before him, that he did not notice when she glanced up at him, pausing in her reading to watch his activity. He looked up to check his progress, met her eye and flushed, pushing the sketch behind him.

“No, don’t,” Káta said entreatingly, reaching out to halt him. “I like your drawings.” She smiled sunnily at him. “Can I see?”

Slowly, Loki brought the drawing back out, passing it over, and watching as Káta’s eyes widened, running over his work. “It’s only a sketch,” he muttered quickly, excusing himself.

Káta shook her head, and looked up at him, smiling even more widely than before as she handed the book back to him. “You should draw more, Loki,” she said. “You’re good. Really good…don’t you know?”

Loki blinked at the unexpected compliment, and stared down at the half complete drawing. He had lingered on Káta’s expression and her hands where they held the book, the lines of her posture briefly included in sweeping brushes of black.

Káta began reading once more, and Loki watched her for a few minutes, gazing in faint wonder at the remarkable girl.

 

It soon became a regular routine for them to go down to the well. Sometimes Káta would read aloud, or simply make up stories, and other times she encouraged Loki to do it, furthering his ability to tell and create tales. His talent for it haltingly grew, for Loki much preferred to listen to Káta, but her help and reassurances were unstinting, and she usually managed to cajole at least one story out of him each time.

Encouraged by Káta’s interest, it quickly became a habit for Loki to bring several pages of paper and his drawing utensils, and fill them up with sketches of her. At times he would draw their surroundings, perhaps the growing golden apple on the tree, or the tree itself, or the play of light rippling on the water of the well, but always, he returned to Káta. Her hands as she gestured, her face in any number of expressions, or her posture in a particular pose, but over and over again, her eyes; sometimes looking away from him focused on something, other times downcast as she read, but occasionally gazing directly at him, smiling.

He preferred to sketch her when she was doing things; reading, playing the harp, singing to or playing with the birds, laughing in a cloud of butterflies, just being herself. Káta’s playful nature however, resulted in her sometimes contriving elaborate poses that she could never hold still long enough for him to capture for laughing at the ridiculousness of them, resulting in torrents of feigned scolding from him.

A few of his drawings were accidentally splashed a number of times, usually on the hottest days, when they would both plunge into the deliciously cool water of the well, laughing and swirling together, but at such moments drawing did not register as a very high priority in Loki’s mind.

 

As the days passed, Káta began to give Loki some of her favourite books for him to keep. They were not always ones that he understood or agreed with, and at times he was completely indifferent to their topic, but Loki was aware of the meaningfulness of the gesture, and endeavoured to read and understand them. It reached the point where he would simply appear on her while she was in the middle of doing things, book in hand, in order to ask her questions and seek explanations, earnestly endeavouring to understand, pacing about her room as he expounded his theories and bombarded her with questions. Pleased and gently amused, Káta slowly worked to open his mind to those areas that had previously been inaccessible to him, and no longer dismissive, Loki found himself filled with a curious hunger for more information. He wrote countless pages of notes and filled his study with them, enraged if any of the handmaidens shifted a single leaf of paper, so that they eventually left the room untouched when they cleaned.

Nor did he neglect to return the favour. Káta frequently returned to her rooms to find a new book had appeared on her desk from Loki, and would eagerly take it up and begin reading it. She couldn’t help but delight in the fact that she could see the evidence of his broadening mind and perspective in the books he sent her, and Fróði was astonished to find the prince dragging him through the library to shelves he had previously shunned, searching for new things to read with the voracious appetite of a starved mind.

Occasionally he would come across a book that was too exciting for a moment’s delay, or that he knew Káta would love, and would instantly disappear, reappearing at Káta’s side wherever she might be, taking her by the hand, and returning to the library in the same instant to enthusiastically share his discovery. Other times he came across books that he would rush to borrow, disappearing to Káta the moment he had them, and dragging her away from whatever task she was engaged in, relating the book to her, the two of them sharing in each other’s excitement, settling down to read it together, perhaps sitting, or walking, or lying down, either reading the page side by side, or taking it in turns to read aloud.

 

Eventually, there came a day when Loki came down with a whole stack of new books for Káta, and despite all their combined efforts, neither could find space for a single volume to live. There was no space in any of her chests, her shelves creaked at the slightest touch, every spare inch of her walls were now stacked with neat piles of books, and her desk had become unusable.

Loki left, taking the books with him, determined at last to act on one of the earliest resolutions he had formed after meeting Káta. The next day Káta came up from the dining hall in the morning to find several huge sets of bookshelves had been installed, her books neatly arranged on their broad, pine scented shelves, with plenty of space left over for more, the newest stack on her bed.

Káta ran one hand down the carved pillar of one with a smile. Loki, though he was little aware of it, was far too generous.

 

Loki did not only share the new books that he discovered with Káta, but his old favourites as well. Káta insisted on his reading them to her, and afterwards, with skilful prompting, had managed to uncap a well of thoughts from him, explaining the things they made him think and feel. Loki no longer hesitated to share his thoughts on any matter, and Káta could never help but smile as she watched him expounding on his various theories.

At times, of course, they disagreed. But it was no longer a mulish unwillingness to understand on Loki’s side, and an entreatingly persistent determination on Káta’s. Loki, now that he was no longer in stubborn disagreement, was able to exercise his intellectual ability, trying to trap Káta with complexly constructed statements, and delighting in watching her sit in serious deliberation as she unwound his grammatical convolutions, the triumph that filled her expression when she figured them out or returned them with her own an expression that he always enjoyed seeing, even if it meant he would have to think quickly to win. Their disagreements were now a good deal more playful, based on logic, each pushing at the boundaries of their own convictions in an attempt to discover just how far they were willing to go, and on what matters they were willing to give ground.

Loki, to Káta’s great astonishment, was unbending on matters of what he considered to be proper conduct. His ideas of such things were quite different to the norm, that she had expected, but there were hidden pockets of chivalry in him that she slowly discovered with the delight of receiving an unexpected gift. His emotional ambiguity threw her at times, just as much as her emotional prowess threw him, and he was not above using his charm to try and win an argument. Such underhand attempts often earned him unimpressed exclamations, and the occasional bodily tackle if they were sitting down. Káta had something of a suspicion that he had begun trying to provoke her into such a reaction on purpose, but they always had far too much fun when she did to make her want to stop.

The more they talked, the more Káta began to understand the essence of what it was to be a god, for Loki in any case. His mischievousness was the essence of who he was, his perverse delight in chaos simultaneously him and his duties. He was never more himself than when he was playing tricks on people, lying to them and others to achieve his mischievous ends. It confused her why so many seemed to hate him, for although his tendencies could be annoying at times, they did not deserve to inspire the depth of ill feeling that she knew subsisted regarding him.

It hurt her that Loki was so deeply misunderstood by so many, although he himself did not seem to care – or at least, he put on a good show of not caring. There was something more that she still didn’t know; she was sure of it, something beyond the messy tangle of his relationship with his father and brother. Fróði was silent on the matter, but Káta could not help wondering whether the old librarian knew more than he was letting on. At any rate, Loki no longer brooded. He seemed happier than he had ever been, energetic with a zest for life that eased her concerns, and no longer visibly dwelling on his brother and father. It made her hope, powerfully, that he was near to being fixed; near to being who he was meant to be.

For his part, Loki no longer thought of Thor or Odin. He spent so little time in Valhalla, only returning to sleep there, that he had not seen any of his family in well over a week, and it did not bother him. There was no earthly or godly concern that could trouble his mind while he had Káta to spend time with. The time he spent with her seemed to have a cumulative effect to that which she made him feel, so that it was as though there was a rising tide surging within him, too powerful to be halted by such paltry thoughts as those of his family or duties.

 

“Tell me about your seiðr,” Káta asked, tucking a ribbon into her book to mark her place and setting it aside.

She had been watching Loki as he idly manipulated a pebble from the bottom of the well, spinning and rotating it lazily in the air above his palm as he rippled his fingers for the past few minutes. Ever since their trip into Vanaheimr Loki had begun to use his seiðr more and more around her, unthinkingly. Before it had been something he had done tentatively, secretively, but now it seemed to come to him naturally, as though he no longer had anything to fear from it. It made her grin like an idiot thinking about it, and she had begun toying with the idea of their taking another trip to see the Vanir.

Loki glanced over to her, surfacing from the ambient state of nothingness that his mind had been filled with as he had turned and manipulated the stone for the simple pleasure of its movement and the play of light and shadow across its surface. He let the stone plop back into his palm. “What do you want to know?”

“Anything,” Káta replied with a smile and a shrug, “everything.”

Loki chuckled. “Of course,” he murmured, shaking his head slightly, sitting up. “Well…it’s something you’re born with. You can’t just learn some spells and then all of a sudden be able to use them. It’s got to be in you; in your heart.”

“Did anyone teach you?”

Loki smiled and shook his head. “No one to begin with. When I got bored I used entertain myself with it – do what felt natural, explore my abilities…but then a handmaiden saw me, and word got round that I was a seiðrmaðr, and father forbade me to use my powers.” Loki’s expression darkened a little. “But my mother ignored him.” A faint smile returned to his face. “She taught me everything that she knew. It was our secret that no one knew about. Not Thor, not Father; not anyone in Asgard.”

Káta smiled, and crawled closer over the grass, taking Loki’s hand. “I think I would like your mother,” she murmured.

Loki let out a puff of laughter, rolling his eyes. “Everyone likes her…but I think she would like you.”

Káta blushed a little, and smiled. “Is there anything you can’t do with seiðr?”

Loki tilted his head thoughtfully. “Kill people…or shift blood,” he said matter-of-factly. “They’re the main two that spring to mind – things to do with the body have more restrictions. Otherwise your imagination is really your only limit; and your strength.”

Káta started slightly. “That’s a bit…dark, isn’t it?”

Loki shrugged. “Can you imagine the havoc it would cause if a person _could_ kill people like that?” he clicked his fingers. “Whole armies would be decimated with a single stroke by one person. You could wipe out races; destroy entire worlds.”

Káta sat, stilled, her eyes wide. Loki glanced at her.

“I don’t suppose this is the sort of thing you have to think about in the orchards.”

Káta shook her head. “The dryads only ever talk about creating things; growing them; bringing life.”

“A far more peaceful world, if you ask me.” Loki muttered. “I’ve been learning battle tactics since before I could understand what they were for.”

Káta blinked, and rolled closer to Loki. “Battles can be avoided…if people take the time to think.”

Loki laughed. “I’m not sure if that’s a trait that runs very strongly in my family.”

“It runs strongly in you.”

Loki smiled and shook his head. “I’m the different one.”

“Who says different is bad?”

Loki turned to gaze at Káta, her eyes holding his. “Fools,” he murmured, grinning widely.

Káta laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it's a sort of shortish one, but there are a couple of squishy moments :3 And you get to learn more about Loki's magic :D  
> It's sort of a "calm before the storm" kind of chapter, because this will be the last happy one for a while. The following chapters will, I hope, ruin your hearts in the best ways possible, cause much grief, and generate lots of OdinHate. Yes; Odin shall be returning. *oh-so-subtle hint*  
> I hope you enjoyed the chapter :)
> 
>  
> 
> Please give Kudos and/or comment :) Tell me what you like or don’t like :) Questions and speculations are always welcome :D As is incomprehensible flailing if that's what you go in for :)  
> Also, if you like this story, or any of my other ones, and you want access to sneak previews on chapters that I'm working on, Like my Facebook page, or Follow my Twitter :)  
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	35. Invisibility

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki and Káta find their utopia shattered by the interference of Odin, and knowledge that Káta has long wished for is thrust upon her in the most unpleasant of manners.

Although neither were aware of it, Loki and Káta had happily begun spending ever increasing amounts of time together once more. Thoughts of their duties were eclipsed and forgotten by the thought of being together. Before there had been the most tantalising of promises, rich with unbegotten fruit, forbidden and all the more delicious for it. Now, it was so much more.

The bubble of their utopia was not to be left undisturbed, however, for guards were sent out in search of Loki in an attempt to recall him to his duties, although by whom they did not know, and even some of the nymphs had begun to notice just how much time Rúna was spending alone or unaccompanied by Káta and ask questions.

Loki would come early in the morning to Mærsalr, and together they would disappear down to the well, escaping the searching eyes of the guards and the prying eyes of the nymphs, eating their morning meal together by the water’s edge, enjoying the particular solitude that only ever came when they were alone together.

 

On one of the rare days that they actually spent in Valhalla, Loki, after much badgering from Káta, turned her invisible. It turned out to be a rather splendid idea. Loki would wander seemingly unaccompanied into occupied rooms and take up an innocuous position, perhaps in a chair perusing a book, or gazing out a window, and wait for the mayhem to ensue, his only task to keep a straight face.

Káta demonstrated a hitherto unknown aptitude for sneaky exploits in her ability to creep up on her targets unawares, manipulating their possessions, clothing, and sometimes even limbs, all to maximum effect. The result was the confused and disturbed exodus of the room’s occupants, all of whom sent suspicious and alarmed glances towards the apparently astonished Loki as they exited, wondering how it was that he had engineered such a trick.

Loki was striding along down a hall, the grin from their last triumph still plastered across his face, Káta bouncing giddily along by his side, when they were accosted by a guard who halted and bowed.

“Prince Loki, the Allfather wishes your attendance in the lesser throne room. I am to escort you.”

Loki inclined his head stiffly, indicating his acceptance of the missive, and the guard turned, marching away. Loki briefly debated whether or not to follow, and despite the strong urge to indulge in the latter, he did the former, and tracked the guard’s footsteps. His smile had vanished like the sun behind a cloud. A faint crease of concern crept across his face, and thoughts began to chase their way wildly through his mind. What would Káta do? What should he do? Should he send her back to Mærsalr? To his rooms? Where was she now?

Káta trotted along at Loki’s side, watching his expression transform under a wave of different emotions, concern in her own. His reaction to the summons did not bode well, and she rather thought that she was at last about to find out the exact lay of the land between Loki and his father. Her anxiety at the worry in his expression rose, and she slipped her hand into his as they strode along, squeezing it reassuringly.

Loki was not sure whether he was more comforted or concerned by Káta’s continued presence. The very thought of her meeting his father made him distinctly uneasy, whether she was invisible or not. Why this was, he was not sure, but he did know that he did not want to share her with anyone. Not yet. Her preciousness had to be protected; shielded from anything that might taint it and his time with her. A vague thought of his introducing her to his mother blossomed in the back of his mind, but he shooed it away, too concerned with the problem that now lay before him. His hand tightened convulsively on hers, and he wished he could see her, almost feeling the comforting smile she was giving him.

He was seized with the sudden mad urge to simply disappear with her. It had been impossible before with her out of reach, for living creatures had to be in his grasp for him to transport them, but he knew that if he delayed the inevitable audience with his father much longer the Allfather’s ire (for ire he was sure was what awaited him) would grow. He had had no doubt at all that it had been his father who had sent the guards into the city searching for him – not that any had ever thought that he might be found in Mærsalr – for his mother, he knew, was far too subtle to do so. If she had wished to find out where he was, she would not have sent palace einherjar.

Valhalla possessed two throne rooms. The greater one was more like a single vast audience chamber; a huge golden hall, in which the Allfather feasted his einherjar richly every night. The far end was dominated by an enormous gold throne on a raised dais, and the ceiling was covered with the shields of countless warriors. By night tables laden and creaking at the joints with the food of kings appeared, and barrels of mead flowed without stint, but by day the hall was for the resolution of disputes, royal audiences, official ceremonies, and echoing silence.

The lesser throne room lay behind the main hall. The throne there, although no less grand, was smaller, and the chamber was able to fit only fifty with comfort, and hence offered a much more intimate audience room. It was in this room that Loki had suffered many of the humiliations of his childhood and adolescence, and he could never enter it without experiencing an involuntary shiver.

They entered the hall of Valhalla, the monolithic doors opening with the barest whisper, and Káta’s eyes widened at the sheer enormity of the room and all its fixtures. They had to march the full length of the hall in order to reach the chamber behind, their footsteps echoing in the vast empty spaces, little silenced by the enormous hangings that were heavy with gold thread and beads of amber, citrine, and yellow diamonds and tourmalines.

Káta moved with graceful care, and not a single footstep of hers reached Loki’s ears. She was painfully aware of Loki’s mounting distress, although she was not entirely sure of its origins, sure that it was split in at least two ways, and the march along the empty hall seemed to her to be a kind of shaming ritual. The grandeur of the hall’s construction was entirely lost on her, the throne that lay before them like a gleaming gold behemoth more monstrous than magnificent to her eyes. Loki was her only concern at present, and unable to wring her hands with frustration while her right was in his left, she grasped a fistful of her skirts, crushing the silk, wishing she knew some way of alleviating the unease she could read in Loki’s eyes.

Old feelings seemed to have resurfaced, so Káta saw for the first time in many weeks a black cloud of ill will sweep over Loki’s face. With every step that brought them closer to the throne, and the lesser throne room beyond, Káta could see another layer of protection drop over his expression. Another layer of forced indifference, another layer of pride, another layer of filial sentiment, another layer of damaged mischief. Mask after mask fell into place, shuttering his expression until his face seemed so rigid she did not think he would even be able to speak, and by the time they passed through one of the side doors that lay to either side of the enormous throne, he was so shielded she did not think that he would even be able to feel her presence.

Behind his façade of protection, Loki’s anxieties rose as they entered the room. Odin did not wait alone. Frigg and Thor were also present, and although he was not sure what was about to unfold, Loki could already feel the heat of shame start to rise in his face, although none who looked at him would have guessed it.

Káta watched Loki’s eyes carefully. They were the only place she could still see the last glimmer of his true feelings, and she saw the flare of hurt that momentarily shadowed them as he took in their reception committee.

As the guard left, and Loki moved forwards to bow to his father, Káta made to release his hand so that she didn’t hinder him, but his grip tightened on her the moment her fingers began to slide from his, and she knew that for all the masks he was wearing, inside, Loki was still thinking of her. She had not lost him. She squeezed his hand tightly as he returned the gesture, biting on her lip hard to keep in check the sudden deluge of tearful gladness that had inexplicably risen up in her.

Frigg watched Loki cautiously as he entered, all her sensibilities on tenterhooks. She had guessed and feared what it was that Odin had called them together for, and knowing the extreme emotional swings that Loki had been going through of late she did not know what to expect of her son’s reaction to the audience, and dreaded what would occur if things went wrong, for her husband was far from a happy state of mind. She frowned a little as Loki bowed, the wave of a presence that was at once familiar and unfamiliar to her brushing against her senses like a faint scent caught in a breeze.

As Loki fell back a step to await the Allfather’s wishes beside his brother, and Káta stood by his side, gazing at Odin and Frigg. She remembered Thor from the library, and blushed a little at the memory of her and Loki sprawled atop one another on the floor, and of Thor’s misinterpretation of the situation, but she had little thought that she would recognise the King and Queen.

She had seen them both before, long, long ago, when she had only been sixty. They had come at different times, first Odin, and a few years later his wife, but they had both been older then – especially Frigg. She had watched them eat her mother’s apples, and seen their return to youthfulness. Although the sighting had only been fried, she would have recognised them both anywhere. They had been the first of the few people beyond the dryads and her mother that she had seen, so she had committed to memory the faces of each visitor she saw. It was only now, however, that she had names to put to the faces. Her hand twitched in Loki’s slightly, and he seemed to notice, for she could feel him tilt his head slightly in her direction, almost in question.

“Thor, step forwards,” Odin commanded.

Thor shot his sibling a quick grin that was only faintly returned before he stepped forward – the only person present to be unaware of the situation unfolding around them, and ignorant of his complicity in the net Odin was about to cast.

“Tell me, how have your duties gone of late?” Odin asked, and there was a leading quality to his tone that at once set Káta on edge.

“Well, Father. I have sent plentiful thunder storms to Midgard, and their spring rains have come early. Their crops will be both numerous and fertile this year.”

“Have you executed your duties to the best of your ability, never shirking that which is due from you?”

Thor smiled at his father, crossing his chest with his arm. “I have.”

“That is well. Step back.”

Thor did so, falling back beside his mother with a cheery grin, and leaving Loki seemingly alone before their father. Frigg managed a weak smile in return.

Loki, who had guessed the direction Odin was taking the moment his father had asked his first question, steeled himself and felt the invisible pressure of Káta’s reassuring squeeze on his fingers.

“Loki, step forwards,” Odin commanded, and this time there was a hint of darkness in his tone. “Tell me, how have _your_ duties gone of late?”

Loki swallowed, but kept his expression blank as he slowly lifted his eyes to meet his father’s. “I do not know,” he replied evenly. Slightly behind him and to his left, he could almost feel the pang of Frigg’s heart, and see Thor’s astonished expression.

Odin merely gazed down at him radiating satisfaction. “Have you executed them to the best of your ability, never shirking that which is due from you?”

“No, I have not.” Loki replied steadily.

At his side Káta was squeezing his hand with nearly painful force, her expression set and angry though none could see it.

Odin feigned surprised interest. “Oh? Why has this come about?”

There was a pause from Loki for the briefest of moments. “I forgot.”

“You _forgot_?” Odin exclaimed with a short burst of incredulous laughter, a spark of anger now dancing in his eye, the runes of his golden eye patch flashing furiously. “You forgot the oaths that bind you to your position? You forgot to answer the prayers of the Midgardians addressed to you? You forgot all that is due from you to your fellows? You forgot what is due in filial obedience from a son to his father?” Odin seemed to swell as he spoke, inflating with fury, his beard bristling.

Loki preserved his silence, still calmly meeting his father’s gaze.

This seemed only to infuriate Odin further, however, for the very last vestiges of his feigned ignorance of Loki’s delinquency fell from his manner. “ _Answer me!_ ” he bellowed, the room ringing with the force of his shout.

Loki held his father’s burning gaze for a few moments longer, knowing that there was nothing he could say that would excuse him from his father’s wrath, and so lowered his eyes. The gesture seemed to be answer enough for Odin.

“How is it that I am cursed to have you for a son?” he asked wretchedly, one fist thumping into the arm of his throne. “You are Thor’s junior! How is that you have not learnt from his example? How is it that you have not reached the heights that he has attained, and instead are dissolute and lazy? You have the meanest of duties of all the gods and goddesses, and yet you think it proper to repay my gift of them with arrogance and self-indulgence!” Odin gestured towards his favoured son, not noticing the uncomfortable expression on Thor’s face. “You and Thor have been given the same opportunities, and yet you are not equal to his worth! Why is it that you are so lacking, Loki? Tell me!”

“I do not know, father.” Loki muttered.

“Huh!” Odin spat in disgust, and Loki did not even flinch as the phlegm splattered his downturned face.

Understanding cascaded down over Káta, and the feeling was worse than being immersed in a frozen lake. It drove the breath from her and constricted her innards as tears of shocked fury welled in her eyes. She had been longing to understand how Loki had become as damaged as he was, but the knowledge made her sick to the core. All of Loki’s problems, all his confusion, the many layers of who he was and who she could see he could be, all of his conflict; it was all because of Odin. All esteem she had previously had for the Allfather vanished, and she knew that it had gone for good. The blackest hate to ever touch her heart replaced it instead, and she fought not to tremble with the strength of her rage.

She had let go of Loki’s hand before Odin had managed to get three sentences into his tirade for fear that Loki would feel her shaking, and mistake it for terror and be distracted by it. At Loki’s side she trembled with fury, her fists balled up in an attempt to rein in the anger coursing through her body like blood. Had the Allfather stopped after his initial comment, she might have been able to control herself better, but he had continued, and he now began to speak again, explaining every reason why it was that Loki did not measure up to Thor. He went on and on, drawing forth a seemingly endless litany of Loki’s shortcomings as though he had spent the greater part of his spare time meditating on them and compiling a list for just such an occasion.

Káta knew she should calm down, that she should take hold of Loki’s hand again, but it was only by sinking her teeth into her lower lip until it bled that she was able to keep silent, and getting anywhere near close to a level head was an impossible thought even to entertain. She could feel Loki’s light-heartedness beginning to fade, a terrifying distance starting to open up between them, but she could not bring herself to take his hand once more; her anger with the Allfather was too great. Instead, she fixed her eyes on a patch of floor in front of her, going half blind in the attempt to block out Odin’s criticising words of loathing, shaking as she fought the desire to leap forwards and sink her fist into the Allfather’s remaining eye. High as her anger was, her fear for Loki was mounting, and she knew she had to control her rage before she could begin to help Loki as she so desperately wished. She chanced a glance up, and the flicker of satisfaction in Odin’s expression that she saw as he detailed Loki’s faults was like a kick in the chest from a horse.

The surge of emotions powering through Káta ripped Loki out of the ever darkening spiral that he had begun to slip down after she had released his hand. His father’s voice had begun to increasingly fill his mind, echoing ever louder the deeper he fell, overlaid with the creeping return of the old voice that had guided him – the voice that until now Káta had helped him keep at bay – the voice which he now realised for the first time to speak with the same cadence and tones of Odin.

Loki shook off the darkness with an almighty effort, his glazed-over sight returning in a blaze of colour and clarity that almost stunned him. Reeling with lucidity and the brightness filling his mind, his eyes flitted about the throne room, less than five seconds in every fifty spent on his enraged father, anxiously sweeping the room for any sign of Káta instead. Now that he was aware of their disconnection, now that he had been drawn out of the darkness of the place that his mind had inhabited before she had come into his life, the sudden deprivation of her presence and support when he needed her most was like a lance of light cutting cleanly through his thoughts, illuminating what was most important; Káta. Awoken from his black meditations, he knew that Odin would not miss his anxiety, but his fear for Káta he kept masked. It would not do for his father to see that. He was worried about where she was, and what she might do, and was horribly aware of just how terrible a moment it was for her to be privy to. This was not the first encounter with his father that he had envisaged for her, if there had been one at all.

Odin’s sneer at Loki’s evident anxiety and distraction, recalled Káta from her fury, forcing her to wrest control back over her emotions, and she reached out gently slipping her fingers into Loki’s to reassure him of her presence. He seemed to relax instantaneously, although his distraction was in no way lessened, for Káta could tell by the tilt of the Prince’s head that he was not even hearing his father, but instead had his full attention turned towards her.

His thoughts now firmly rooted in the brightness Káta brought into his mind, Loki ignored his father, instead concerned with what it was Káta might do. He knew enough of her impetuousness and fiery temper that she would not long be able to remain inactive beside him while Odin continued his diatribe, but he had no means to halt her if she did speak out. Her very presence there would offend Odin, and he hesitated to think just how poorly the Allfather would react to a dressing down from Káta when her tongue was at its sharpest. Through the bracelet he could feel the anger coursing through her, and the enormity of her fury dwarfed that of Odin’s like a wildfire compared to a candle. It magnified his concerns, but awe simultaneously slipped into Loki’s mind, and he wished he could gaze upon her expression to witness the incredible ferocity he could feel breathing beneath the surface. He had never known anyone but himself to ever feel anger with the Allfather. There were times when his mother chided her husband, but her reprimands were nothing to the enmity that dwelt treacherously in his own heart. Káta’s anger felt purer than his; like cleansing fire – white hot and righteous. The very experience of it through the bracelet felt somehow uplifting, as though it was burning the blackness out of him, but guilt remained, preying on his mind.

A dart of black anger flickered through him like the reflection of a bird flying across a lake’s surface, and he fought to restrain a shudder as he wrestled with the writhing anger that he had only just managed to lid mere minutes before. The old voice was still there, a sibilant whisper oiling its way around the shadowy crevices of his mind, growing ever stronger, for it seemed to be fanning the flames beneath the pot of his anger. Every unworthy thought he had ever entertained rose up into the forefront of his mind, for he could feel the darkness beginning to bubble over, spilling into the light parts of him and contaminating them. A stray word from Odin pierced his thoughts, “ _worthless_ ”, and with a faint cry that was quickly swallowed up by the massing darkness, Loki felt the ground beneath him crumble, and he fell back into the waiting abyss.

Káta felt it the moment it happened. Loki had started drifting away from her once again, his inattention to his father beginning to change, until suddenly she could feel him falling back down into himself once more, back to the dark place she had fought so hard to drag him out of. She tightened her grip on his hand, squeezing until she felt her own hand would break, trying to recall him to the present, but it was too late. He was lost to her.

Káta fought to control the sobs threatening to choke her as she took in the deadness in Loki’s eyes. Now at last she was able to ignore Odin and all his umbrage, her entire world focused down onto the single point that was Loki and his building misery. She wanted nothing better than to shake him out of it, to cover his ears with her hands, and stare into his eyes, and fill his mind with memories of the bright days they spent together; to tell him that everything would be all right; that he didn’t have to listen to what Odin said, that she was there for him, that she would always be there; that he didn’t have to be alone. But it was all far too late. Even if she could have done so, she knew it would not have achieved the slightest difference.

So instead she stood, trembling with forced silence, waiting out the storm.

 

At great length, Odin exhausted his anger, and dismissed them all. Frigg and Thor could sense that Loki wanted to nothing more than to be left alone, and so exited quickly. Káta was still holding Loki’s hand, and within seconds they were away, back in his rooms.

Loki released Káta’s hand and shed the invisibility from her.

Even as her body was still coming back into sight, Káta caught up the hem of her dress and tore a great strip out of the fabric, bundling it up, and moving swiftly over to Loki, wiping away the spit that still clung to his face.

Loki submitted to her ministrations mutely, his eyes on the floor as she left his side for a moment, darting over to his desk to retrieve the pitcher of water, tearing a new strip from her dress and wetting it, and wiping away the spit that had dried on.

Eventually she was satisfied, dropping the damp bundles of fabric with wet slaps to the floor. Loki’s eyes still regarded her midriff rather than her eyes. Káta frowned.

She seized his wet face, lifting it gently so his doleful eyes met her fierce ones. “If something like that _ever_ happens again; I will _not_ remain silent, Loki. Regardless of any promises I may have made to the contrary – I will not let it happen. I don’t care if it’s the Allfather, or anyone else; I will _not_ let them do it!” a tear slipped from her eyes.

“You’ve ruined your dress,” Loki murmured, fingering the rents in the fabric.

“Hang my dress!” Káta shrieked, letting go of his face, and picking up the sodden scraps of fabric from the floor and hurling them violently out the door and off the balcony. “I don’t care about it! It doesn’t matter, Loki! _You_ matter! You should care! You should be furious! How can you let him treat you like that? How can you stand by and let him just humiliate you?! He doesn’t have the right! No one has the right!” the tears were flowing freely down Káta’s face now from a mixture of frustration and anguish at Loki’s treatment and his reaction to it. His docility frightened her.

“He’s my father,” Loki replied simply. “I owe him my obedience as a son.”

Káta stared at him with stunned horror, her eyes wide with disbelief. “Don’t you hear what you’re saying?” she whispered brokenly. “Don’t try and defend him! He _enjoys_ it! He’s –” she had been about to say ‘destroying you’, but knew that it would be a mistake. “Forget everything he said, Loki. Forget all of it. None of it’s true.” She seized his hands. “I know you, remember? _I know you_. I would know if any of it were true.”

Loki shook his head with a faint smile, gently extracting his hands from hers. “He’s trying to help me, Káta,” he replied. “It’s not Father’s fault that he has trouble teaching.” Káta shuddered as Loki called Odin ‘father’. “I should be a better son…I have trouble with doing what I should. With being loyal and good. Thor…” a flicker of bitterness came into Loki’s eyes for the first time, “it comes naturally to Thor…” he turned away.

Káta stood, trembling with her suppressed emotions, struggling not to scream. She shook her head. “You’re wrong. _He’s_ wrong. It’s _all…wrong_!” she bowed her head, wishing she had a pillow to beat the stuffing out of, but instead Loki’s arms came about her, drawing her close.

“You don’t understand, Káta,” he murmured soothingly. “I’m fine…it’s fine.”

Káta wriggled out from Loki’s arms, beating her hands against his chest as she cried. “It’s not!” she shrieked. “It’s not fine! _You’re_ not fine!” she took in a deep sniff, drawing back from Loki, her eyes red with angry tears. “I understand,” she said softly, calm for the first time. “And I hate him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I HATE ODIN SOOOO MUCH!!!!!!!  
> I told you it would get nasty.
> 
> But first, yay for self control. I told myself I wouldn't post this chapter until after I had finished all of my final assignments (just graduation to go, and then I'm a post-graduate uni student!), and I kept it! So proud XP
> 
> And now back to the chapter!  
> Loki's docility guts me. Káta's job just got a whole lot harder. AND THE SPIT, ODIN HOW DARE YOU SPIT ON YOUR ADOPTED SON, I DON'T CARE HOW MUCH YOU HATE HIS RACE IT IS NOT ALLOWED!  
> I think it was the exact right time for Káta to completely lose her cool with Loki to his face for the first time, as well.  
> Anyway, suffice it to say that things will not be going uphill from here, but steadily down. I hope you are all prepared.
> 
> Hopefully you enjoyed it XP Angsty-cut-out-your-heart feels can be an acquired taste, I know.
> 
>  
> 
> Please give Kudos and/or comment :) Tell me what you like or don’t like :) Questions and speculations are always welcome :D As is incomprehensible flailing if that's what you go in for :)  
> Also, if you like this story, or any of my other ones, and you want access to sneak previews on chapters that I'm working on, Like my Facebook page, or Follow my Twitter :)  
> https://www.facebook.com/josephinetomkinsauthor  
> https://twitter.com/jtomkinsauthor


	36. Trials and Tribulation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath following Odin's anger, Káta discovers just how truly destructive the audience was, despite Loki's attempts to conceal the damage from her.

Káta had walked out of Valhalla, and then run back through the city to Mærsalr tears streaming down her face once more. Her torn dress and tears had attracted a good deal of attention, but she had brushed past them all. She had been tempted to go back to her room, but instead she rode. Her mare, Sólfríðr, seemed to sense her distress, and they sped out of the city together as Káta cried her heart out over the galloping mare’s neck.

Eventually they stopped, where Káta didn’t know, somewhere in the middle of the great grassy expanse of the Plain of Iða, and Káta half fell, half flopped off Sólfríðr’s back, dragging herself into a sitting position as she continued to sob, hunched and bent over herself, hugging her knees to her chest.

The mare attempted to comfort her, nuzzling at her shoulders and whickering gently, but when Káta merely stretched out on the ground, her tears only increasing in number and her sobs in volume, Sólfríðr when down on her knees, lying beside her mistress, who rolled in against her warm side.

Káta lay there and cried her eyes raw. Her sorrow for Loki, his past wrongs and his present suffering, seemed to know no end; it just went on and on, dragging her deeper and deeper into a pit of misery that she did not think she would ever be able to climb out of. The inconsolability of her anguish lay in the fact that Loki was so completely unaware of the origins of his suffering; he protected his father, his wrongdoer, and she did not know what she could do in the face of his gentle conviction. He believed, so earnestly, that he was in the wrong; that it was his fault, and it destroyed her.

 

At last Káta seemed to have cried herself dry, for although dry sobs continued to shudder her body and her eyes pricked, no more tears came. Her throat was so dry that the only sound she could make was a hoarse rasping. Eventually, even her sobs stopped, and she lay, silent and aching against Sólfríðr’s belly. The sun began to wane, falling slowly down towards the west, and still Káta did not move. She watched the sky, the clouds slowly massing and growing into a great grey blanket above her, comfortless to her misery.

It was not until the very end of dusk as night was looming in that the great bank of clouds released their burden. The rain fell on the plains, neither heavy nor light, and Káta felt the sting of her split lip for the first time even as she savoured the sweetness of the drops on her parched lips, the cooling touch soothing to the puffy, aching skin of her eyelids. The grass she lay on turned to sandy mud, the water pattering and running through her hair, mixing with the grainy silt, and at long last she was able to draw a clean breath.

Her heart still ached, but it was no longer needless. She had a direction to go in; a purpose to achieve, and her pain was her drive. Cleansed, she struggled drunkenly into a sitting position, Sólfríðr waking at her movement with a soft whinny of welcome, sensing the slowly returning spirits of her mistress as Káta threw an arm over the mare’s wet neck.

Refreshed as her soul was, her body ached from the strength of her tearful convulsions, stiff from remaining curled in a single attitude for so long, and it seemed an impossibility that she would be able to get her leg over the mare’s back. Sólfríðr turned her head around, pushing and nosing Káta up and over her back, before she got up and trotted for home, Káta slumped over her neck, her fingers wound in the mare’s wet mane.

 

Loki had let Káta leave. He knew enough of her stubbornness to know that trying to change her mind would be no easy feat, and she had been in such a state that it would have been pointless to try and convince her. Her refutations of the motives for Odin’s behaviour had only served to strengthen his own resolutions about the Allfather, and he had spent the greater part of the rest of the day repeating to himself that his father was of good intentions, even as he struggled with the returning darkness of his heart. Fragments of Odin’s words kept returning to him – _dissolute, lazy, arrogant,_ _not equal to Thor’s worth_ – circling his mind like vultures, pecking determinedly at the new fabric of himself that he and Káta had been creating, and by the nightfall his mind was a confused mess.

The next day he came down to Mærsalr to see Káta as usual, the troubles of the previous evening stowed firmly away, a smile on his face. There was less spring in his step than usual, however, and his manner was tentative in case something started another outburst from her. Káta’s tears the previous day had astonished him, and for all that he wanted to help her understand his father better – the way he did – he did not want to cause her more tears. It pained him to see her hurt like that, even more so because he neither understood their cause, nor knew their cure.

He had thought that he would be able to hold his position with ease, ready to defend his father if she brought up the subject, but the mere sight of her, sitting on her bed, reading, looking up at him with a smile as he appeared, struck him with a blow to the chest that not even the most brutal or eloquent of attacks could have achieved. All the mess of the previous night spilled back into his mind and he shuddered, trapped between the force of the two mountains crashing against each other within him. Everything that the confrontation with his father had reminded him of, all that his time with Káta had slowly begun to repress, returned in a torrid flurry, burning through him with a vengeance as it rushed to meet the half of him that he had begun to believe he was; the half of him that he had learnt about by being with Káta, that the sight of her had reminded him of.

He closed his eyes, shaking his head as he backed up, striving to fight against the war that had begun to rage inside him, to suppress it, unaware of his surroundings. Káta leapt up from her bed, rushing to seize Loki by the arms before he walked backwards into the windowsill and fell out. He flinched at her touch, his eyes flying open, unseeing, gazing at her with a fearful lack of recognition.

“It’s me, Loki! It’s Káta,” she said with soft urgency, holding him gently, watching as he slowly returned to her, the terror of his mind easing until he could see her properly again.

“Káta,” he murmured slowly, his eyes running over her familiar features, one hand unthinkingly coming up to cup the edge of her jaw.

Káta nodded and smiled. “I’m here.”

Loki heaved in a heavy breath, closing his eyes for a moment as he collected himself. When he opened them again, the shadow no longer lingered in them. “Let’s go somewhere we’ve never been.”

 

Over the coming days Káta watched Loki closely. Despite the fact that all appeared to be set to rights with him, he still laughed and smiled and joked with her, she could not banish the memory of the look in his eyes the day he had returned. It scared her as much as his acceptance of Odin’s abuse did. He seemed desperate for things to return to the way they had been before, but Káta could see the shadow that sometimes passed over his eyes, the stricken silences that would overtake him at times as he turned his gaze inwards to what she felt sure was the pitched battle sacking his insides.

She knew he was lying to himself, desperately trying to put back together the shattered glass ornament that had been formed within him, even as he held on to that which had broken it. She knew now that Loki could never be what she could see him being while he still clung to the idealised notions he entertained of his father. She was hesitant to push him, however, the very fact of his continued struggles evidence enough that such a move would be foolhardy in the extreme. It pained her to wait, however. Gods and goddesses passing them in the city looked at him with the same aversion she had seen in their expressions a thousand times, but now Loki seemed to accept their disgust, when before he had ignored it with the superiority of a Prince.

Káta’s heart languished in the memories of such incidences, and frustration at her powerlessness grew with every occurrence. The very idea of what was going on inside Loki’s mind terrified her, and with each passing day of inaction her fear grew, dreading that she would wait too long, and that when she finally acted, it would be too little too late.

 

“Stop it, Loki!” Káta grabbed him by the arm and dragged him into a deserted side street. Loki blinked, gazing at her confusedly.

“Stop what?”

“That!” Káta gestured angrily towards the street they had been walking along where a pair of gods had just passed them, revulsion in their eyes as they inclined their heads to Loki. “ _Every time!_ Every time any of them looks at you like that, you-you just accept it!” Loki’s expression became shuttered, and his eyes darkened. Káta spoke on, heedless; if she didn’t speak now, she never would. “This isn’t you. Who cares what they all think? You might have cared before, but you never accepted it. You’re worth more than they think. More than _you_ think!”

Loki shook his head, raising a hand briskly to halt Káta. “You don’t understand,” he said firmly.

Káta stamped her foot in frustration. “I _do_ , Loki! Believe me, I do!”

“You _can’t_!” Loki snarled. “No one can!”

Káta sighed, sadness in her eyes. “Not even you.”

The frown on Loki’s face deepened, and acknowledgment flashed into his eyes for the briefest of moments.

Káta sighed again. “You don’t have to believe Odin. He’s wrong. How can anyone who behaves like that to their son be right? No father behaves like that.”

“How would you know?”

The quiet words were like a slap in the face. Káta stared at Loki for a second in pure shock, the breath knocked out of her.

Loki regretted them the moment he uttered them, but it was too late; even he could not render words unspoken.

“I have eyes and a heart,” Káta said quietly, collecting herself quickly although her tone had hardened.

“I have duties to be about,” Loki muttered, his gaze fixed on the ground.

Káta nodded slightly, her expression set, her eyes brimming with emotions. “Fine…I won’t keep you. The last thing I would want is to cause you more trouble than I already have.” She turned, and left, unable to see the anguished regret that momentarily flickered across Loki’s expression as he looked up to watch her receding back.

 

Káta walked on until she knew she would be out of sight, and then turned into a side alley, and stood with her back pressed against the wall, letting the tears she had fought to keep back finally flow. She knew Loki hadn’t meant what he said, but she was horribly aware that he was nearing the point of no return – the point where she wouldn’t be able to bring him back again, and the intransience of it filled her with terror. She sighed, screwing her eyes shut and wishing she could scream, and beat the back of her head against the stone of the wall, trying to think of a solution. She needed advice. She needed it badly. But no one she knew who might be of help knew Loki as she did.

Káta’s eyes flew open. She bolted out of the alley like a fox pursued by hounds and rushed through the city, making for the Library. _Fróði._ Fróði would know. Unable to understand why she hadn’t thought of him before she ducked and wove between the people she met on the streets, a host of exclamations of alarm and annoyance let in her wake, determined not to lose more time than she already had.

By the time she burst through the great double doors of the library, she was panting and sweaty.

“Fróði?!” she cried hoarsely, bending over with her hands on her knees as she panted.

“Káta?” Fróði appeared with his usual uncanny speed, his expression concerned as he gazed at her breathless form. “Is everything all right?”

Káta shook her head wordlessly as she continued to catch her breath, looking up. “It’s Loki,” she panted.

Fróði’s expression became suddenly serious, and taking her by the arm, he led her to his back room. There he provided her with a chair and a goblet of water, and waited patiently until she had breath enough to relate the events that had passed.

As Káta spoke Fróði’s countenance grew ever graver, his eyes sorrowful, until at last he simply closed his eyes and simply listened, his expression pained.

When Káta had finished, he sighed.

“I had hoped that with your help Loki would have been able to fight such thoughts. But how he is is the work of a lifetime, and I was foolish to think it could be so easily overturned.” He looked a lot older than Káta had ever seen. Fróði, for all his centuries, somehow always contrived to look sprightly; now, however, he seemed a little old man weighed down with cares. “I should never have laid such a burden upon your shoulders, Káta. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry – help me,” Káta exclaimed, her concern for Loki paramount, even as she realised that she did not regret her involvement for a single moment. “What should I do, Fróði? How am I supposed to help him when he’s so determined not to help himself?”

Fróði smiled sadly. “I’m afraid you might not think it very helpful advice…” he said slowly, “but follow your heart. Be true to it.”

Káta frowned, perplexed.

Fróði laughed a little. “Not what you were hoping to hear?”

“I don’t see how that can help, Fróði,” Káta said, endeavouring to keep her anxiety and annoyance in check.

Fróði smiled, and patted her hands with his wrinkly ones. “Don’t worry. In time you will. Trust me; you learn a few things when you get to my age.”

Káta couldn’t help but smile at that. “I thought you always said you were young,” she said wryly. She thought of how Loki would chuckle if he were there, and pain lanced through her heart once more.

“And so I am!” Fróði asserted stridently, puffing out his scrawny chest. “But compared to me you’re not even a stripling.”

They laughed together.

“Look,” Fróði gazed at her seriously again. “Talk to Loki. I’ve watched him struggle with this for years, and I’ve tried to help him. He’s aware of it; of that you can be sure.”

Káta sighed, and nodded. “I’ve tried, believe me, I’ve tried – and I’m not about to give up on him, it’s just…I’m afraid,” she murmured. “What if I can’t help him? What if he stays stuck like that? It’ll destroy him, Fróði. I want him…I want him safe.”

Fróði smiled kindly. “If there’s one thing you’ve proved in all this, Káta, it’s that you can help him. Trust me.”

 

Somewhat reassured by Fróði, Káta returned to Mærsalr, deep in thought. She had hoped that she might find Loki in her room, but the wish was in vain, and on reflection, perhaps for the best.

In the following weeks she tried to take the matter up with Loki, decided upon a more direct approach than she had previously tried, and driven by desperation, redoubling her attempts to help him see his own worth, but every time the topic of Odin was broached arguments erupted between them. Káta had finally reached the point where she was no longer able to make excuses for the Allfather – something she had been able to do before she came into possession of the full, stomach-turning truth; but now she refused to point blank. It did not make for happy conversation. Loki would not hear the slightest word of criticism against his father, even when she worded it as gently as she could contrive, and the very idea of Odin being the cause of his problems ignited his fury as nothing else did. With their stubbornness so equally matched, progress on the matter became not merely difficult, but a laughable impossibility.

With every failed attempt, Káta’s despair mounted, but so too did her determination. She would not lose Loki; she refused to.

 

After their eleventh argument however, Loki stopped coming to see her. Káta waited several days, doing her best to be patient, trying to convince herself that Loki merely needed a break – some time apart from their constant loggerheads – even as anxieties gnawed at her like starving dogs. She had to admit, even at their worst moments in the past, they had never fought each other like this, and she had begun to feel the strain of it, and was sure that Loki would be too.

            Such thoughts did little to assuage her concerns, however, and she spent the chief part of her time pacing her rooms, snapping at anyone who disturbed her, wringing her hands as she attempted to reassure herself that things would get better.

By the fifth day, however, she knew he was not going to return.

 

Loki had shut himself in his room. Every time he saw Káta the war raging inside him was scaled up a notch, and their constant arguing did little to lessen the confusion that had overtaken his mind.

There was no single battle within him. He was simultaneously fighting and defending his love for his father, and his childhood impression of Odin as infallible in all things, rejecting his own sense of worthlessness even as he embraced it, defending and attacking the same position, even as he defended and attacked Káta’s position on the matter every time she brought it or Odin up. Then there was the fight to see her; half of him spurring him on to see her, craving the next visit, half of him dragging him back, pushing her away, the darker side of him doing so because it rebelled against the warmth that she made blossom in his heart, and the new part of him because she was worth more than he could ever be. He could not see her, and yet he could not _not_ see her. Debates raged within his mind day and night, and he alternated with no fixed pattern between insomnia and extended periods of sleep, one day diurnal, the next nocturnal. He ate and rejected food at turns, and knotted himself into countless tangles. Away from Káta, thinking simultaneously became easier and yet infinitely more difficult, and he had no way of solving the problem it presented.

 

It was the sixth day that he had been alone when a gentle knock came at his door. He had barred them with seiðr, and by now he had expected the handmaidens have gotten the message. One, it seemed, had not however.

“Loki? Loki please…open up.”

Loki stiffened where he sat on his bed surrounded by a sea of crumpled parchment on which he had attempted to set out his thoughts and distract himself by turns, all to no avail. It was Káta.

Káta clenched her teeth ferociously to stop her teeth from chattering. She had dragged her way up the tor of Valhalla, knowing that she hadn’t the slightest chance of getting past any of the einherjar or Valkyries guarding the causeways. She had been spurred on by her need to see Loki, to know how he was, and had not halted in her ascent until she toppled, frozen, through the window and into the corridor.

It had taken a little while before the shivers subsided enough for her to stand, and she had remained locked, curled sideways on the floor trying to rub her arms with her hands and get some heat back into her body. She had come prepared this time, wearing slender doeskin gloves and a thick winter fur coat, despite the extra weight, but even then with no Loki to warm her this time it took her a while before she was able to move once more. Even when she had been able to walk, it was with little grace, and there had been several moments when she had nearly been discovered.

“Loki, open the door,” Káta whispered.

Silence returned in answer, and shaking she held onto the carvings of the frame in an attempt to remain on her feet.

“Loki! Open…your…doors!” Káta shouted as loudly as she could, her voice muffled and hoarse with cold, pounding her fist on the door, all concern about being discovered abandoned, and sliding agonisingly to the floor for her pains.

Doggedly, she pulled herself along the polished floor, and pressed her mouth to the crack at the bottom of the doors.

“Please…please…”

On the other side of the door, pressed against the wall, Loki stood, arrested. He was desperate to see Káta again, but he couldn’t. In their time apart he had begun thinking over things, and reminded of his own worthlessness he could not understand why she wanted to spend time with him. Why was it now, after he had managed to half convince himself that she would not return – that he would never see her again – that she had come back and thrown him back into the whirling vortex of his confused emotions for her? Why had she returned? He battled fiercely with himself, desperate to see her, even if it was just one more time, but knowing that if he did it would be infinitely harder to let go of her again.

Káta remained where she lay, her strength sapped. Tears slid silently from her eyes and dripped down onto the floor. A weak sob escaped her lips, and she curled up tighter, her heart aching for what Loki was doing to himself.

Eventually she shook herself, sniffing deeply, and scrabbled up, pushing herself into a sitting position against the frame, and panting for a few moments, rubbing at her still freezing limbs.

“Fine…if you won’t open the doors, then I’ll stay here.” She coughed as a rough tickle settled in her throat, sliding back down the wall a little, and laboriously pushed her way back up once more. “Tell me you’re ok, Loki…” she whispered softly to herself, wishing rather than believing that he would hear her.

The doors gently swung open without the slightest creak.

Káta sensed their movement, and dragged herself upright with more speed than she had energy for, fuelled by a firework of hope. She edged around the frame, still clinging to it for support, and took in Loki.

He stood facing her, his eyes fixed on the floor between them. His clothes were rumpled and mismatched, and his hair was an untidy mess, wild and tangled, and pushed back from his forehead from times that she knew he had run his hands through it with frustration. Broken quill tips and the ends of feathers were caught in a few straggling strands, and the sight of him so utterly dishevelled and woebegone wrung her heart, even as the ridiculousness of the feathers made her want to smile.

She let out a long, slow breath, at ease now that she saw him, and allowed herself to sag against the doorframe that she still clutched.

Loki lurched forwards at her sudden movement, his hands outstretched to steady her, but he baulked as he came closer to her, shying away as though he had broken some unspoken rule. He gazed into her eyes for the most fleeting of moments, his glance furtive and greedy for the connection that sprung between them as their eyes met, and then quickly turned and hastened deeper into his chambers.

Bewildered and perplexed, Káta shuffled over the threshold, the doors closing soundlessly behind her the moment she passed them, and made her way slowly further in towards Loki’s bedchamber, where she knew he would have headed.

She was tempted to pause by the huge open hearth fires burning on either side of his dining hall, her fingers numbed dowels of ice in her gloves, but pushed herself onwards to his rooms, her desire to see him again greater than the ache for warmth filling her chilled bones and flesh.

Eventually, she reached his private chambers. Loki was seated in a far corner on the floor, his back to her, hunched over himself and surrounded by scraps of crumpled paper. On the table near the entrance a steaming bowl of soup sat ready for consumption, a chair drawn up before it covered in deliciously thick furs, warmed by the fire crackling in a huge iron bowl beside it as though it had been burning for hours.

At the sight of it, Káta’s expression softened, her heart warmed by the gesture more effectively than any amount of flames could achieve. She pulled off all her clothes with difficulty, any scruples about propriety or modesty long gone – fled with the warmth of her body, and the fretting concern of not knowing how Loki was – and quickly wrapped the warm furs close about her, huddling into them as she sat and began to drink the soup.

When she had finished, warmed from the inside out as thoroughly as though there was a fire burning pleasantly in her belly, she stood and crossed quietly over to Loki where he had remained throughout her meal, holding the furs close about her, and knelt behind him.

One of the preposterous quill feathers dangled from his hair before her, and she reached out, carefully extricating it, and moving on to every one of its fellows throughout the knotted mane of Loki’s hair. Loki did not move throughout all her ministrations, sitting with such perfect stillness that Káta was not sure whether he still breathed.

As the last piece fluttered to the ground, Káta lightly placed her hands on Loki’s shoulders. She felt him tense further, more tightly wound than a spring, and slowly let her arms slide around to encircle him, hugging him from behind about his shoulders, resting her head on one.

She could feel the tension thudding in him with his heart beat beneath her skin, until all of a sudden his shoulders fell, relaxing as a long breath streamed out from him.

“I’m sorry,” Káta whispered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well done, Odin. Look what your meddling has started. *smashes the Allfather's face through the back of his head with a barge pole*  
> So yes, Loki's begun disintegrating again thanks to Odin's wonderful parenting skills, and poor Káta's doing her best to stop it. The chapter title says it all really. Lots of tears and arguments and frustration and destruction.  
> Poor Loki, though, he's so confused, he honestly does not know which way is up anymore. 
> 
> Oh, and I finally named Káta's mare! :D   
> Sólfríðr means "the sun, sun-coloured, yellow" and "beautiful, beloved, to love"  
> I feel like they have a pretty special connection and it was about time she was given a name. I picture her as a buckskin Akhal Teke (they are frankly GORGEOUS horses - they are literally gold. They're the only breed of horse that when their coat is buckskin it's actually metallic. And I thought that was a nice parallel to Kata's eyes :D.) I imagine Sólfríðr to be a cross of the horses in these two images.  
> The beautiful sweet face and spirit of this one  
> http://www.freeallimages.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/09/akhal-teke-buckskin-2.jpg  
> with the golden coat of this one  
> http://www.allhorsebreeds.info/buckskin-akhal-teke.jpg
> 
> And yes, I am aware that Fróði's advice to Káta is a bit trite and hackneyed. But it's sort of what Káta really needs to hear then, because she's losing confidence in herself and her ability to save Loki because of her fear that she'll lose him, and Fróði just gives her that little pep up.  
> I hope you enjoyed it :D (the next chapter shall be similarly angst, and faaar more destructive).  
> P.S. I also now have tumblr! :D Check out below for details :)
> 
>  
> 
> Please give Kudos and/or comment :) Tell me what you like or don’t like :) Questions and speculations are always welcome :D As is incomprehensible flailing if that's what you go in for :)  
> Also, if you like this story, or any of my other ones, and you want access to sneak previews on chapters that I'm working on, you can Like my Facebook page, and Follow my Twitter or Tumblr :)  
> https://www.facebook.com/josephinetomkinsauthor  
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	37. Unworthy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki and Káta reconcile, but despite Káta's best efforts to control the damage, Loki continues on his downward spiral.

With the opening of his doors to Káta, Loki relaxed his seclusion very slightly. The handmaidens could now come and go about their duties, but it was up to providence whether they found him in a silent, brooding mood – in which case he would ignore them – or a towering fury, in which case he was liable to throw things at them until they left.

The handmaidens did not who Káta was, only that there was a girl who came and went, and that the Prince was likely to be at his most docile while she was present. This had not been the case to begin with. Despite Loki’s repeated attempts to distance himself from Káta, he was yet to erase his possessiveness of her, and the first time a handmaiden happened upon them together his fury and the accompanying outpouring of enraged seiðr had been such that the girl had fainted clean away from pure terror.

Káta had rebuked Loki for the severity of his reaction, which had involved his turning into a human torch of blazing wildfire, and revived the girl, who had then fled at the flaming look that still filled Loki’s eyes. On all subsequent occasions he never said a word, but merely remained where he was – sitting or standing – glowering sullenly until the handmaidens had left, and earning gently reproving tuts from Káta.

In this vein he refused to tell the einherjar and Valkyrie guards to let her pass if she came to the causeways, his desire to keep her his own as strong as his desire to push her away. Káta had stoutly ignored the latter wish, and after climbing the tor on three successive visits, each time arriving half frozen at his rooms, and on the last nearly being blown off the stone by a gale, Loki finally relented, and would come to bring her up when he felt her arrive at the bottom of the tor. Her stubbornness simultaneously confounded and thrilled him. He aided her with varying amounts of reluctance and willingness; disinclined to help Káta come to him, but loath to put her through the freezing and potentially life-threatening ordeal she insisted upon executing if he refused to bring her up with his seiðr. Even so, a tiny part of him did miss the result of her climbs, for even in his state of confused deliberation, he could not deny how beautiful the sight of firelight flickering across the bared skin of her shoulder and back was.

Loki’s internal debates did not lessen with Káta’s return, but she did not pursue the topic of his father any further, and for that he was grateful. It was relaxing, in a strange sort of way, to have her in his chambers, near him, humming to herself as she did some little thing or other, coming across her reading in little nooks, or singing on the balcony to the birds that fluttered down, harmonising with their own songs. At such times he was able to forget for a few sweet moments the chaos of his insides, and gain some slight respite.

Her presence made it easier for him to want to keep her near him, selfish as the desire was, and the many layers of protest against his retaining her friendship were hushed by his blind wish not to lose something as precious as her presence. In this matter, he acknowledged that he was being wholeheartedly selfish, but her own enjoyment in being there, and the fact that she continued to return served to slightly alleviate his concerns about how detrimental he was to her, even as thoughts of denial hovered in the back of his mind like midges in a meadow. If anything, her presence now made his decisions harder to form, but his mind was calmer, and he found that he experienced less turmoil when she was near. With her return, however, that part of him that fretted over her in her absence had finally quietened with a pleased sort of hum of satisfaction.

Káta knew she couldn’t address the problem of Odin with Loki. Not now. The audience with the Allfather had begun to open up a gap between them, and guilt assailed her every time she thought of all their arguments, which she knew had only served to widen it. She felt ill whenever she remembered, knowing that if she had been able to control her anger and frustration better things might not have degenerated as much as they had, furious with herself for not seeing the damage it caused before it was too late.

With the cessation of their arguments, however, Loki had begun to return to his usual self a little more. Shelving the issue of his father as was his wont, he was happier to ignore the problem than feel the frustration and self-loathing that thinking about it caused, turning instead to the far more important issue of Káta and her perplexing desire to return.

Káta began to notice the way he stared at her, analysed her, his expression at once bewildered and calculating whenever she smiled at him. It bemused her, his sudden scrutiny, and whenever she caught him watching her, her smile always seemed to widen of its own accord, half questioning, inviting a reply from him. But all she ever received were ever deepening frowns of evaluation, his attention inside his mind rather than in the moment.

 

“Why do you always return?” Loki had been watching Káta as she sat in a puddle of sunlight on his balcony, the lap of her skirt filled with flowers that she had brought with her, while she deftly picked through them, interlacing their stalks into a thick garland.

Káta smiled faintly as she glanced at him, amusement in her eyes. She threaded the final stalk, turning the long flower chain into a circlet, and held it up, examining her handiwork for a moment with a pleased smile before she set it down, giving him her undivided attention. “Because I care,” she replied simply.

Loki gazed at her blankly, dumbfounded.

Silence hung between them longer than it seemed possible, as though the world had been frozen. But then Loki stood abruptly and swept into his rooms.

Káta’s heart was thudding. Her response had been natural and truthful – it was a truth she had long been aware of throughout her regard for Loki – but this was the first time she had spoken it openly in so many words, and it seemed to have taken Loki by surprise as nothing else had. She had spoken thoughtlessly, but his reaction to her words, simple as they were, brought home to her just how powerful they had been. He was not used to people caring; not about him.

She got up after a few moments, flowers and flower petals falling in a shower from her skirts, and followed Loki in. He sat with his back to her by the distant circular table she had sometimes dined at, his chair dragged around from its usual place so that he faced the wall, his feet resting on the grate of the fireplace.

Káta knew it was best to leave the prince to his thoughts. She crossed to his desk where his half of their carved birds stood, and laid the flower wreath around it on the table, quietly leaving.

 

Loki sat in his chair as the day turned to evening, and then the evening turned to night, unmoving, unsure exactly what it was that he was feeling. He had been tempted to turn around when Káta had come in from the balcony, but fear of disappointment had held him back.

Eventually, when only the faintest of cinders remained in the hearth, he stood, turning to gaze balefully about his empty room. The moonlight came in through the window that his desk was set before, and puddled his things in silver.

Cross and confused as he was, it did little detriment to his powers of observation, and noticing the flower wreath, he crossed to it, his curiosity greater than all else.

He stood before his desk, regarding the wreath seriously, and his chest tightened at the sight of the carved bird that it encircled. The memory of he and Káta joining their respective halves of the carving in Vanaheimr blossomed before his eyes, and he was astonished to feel a wetness welling in his eyes.

He reached out, gently lifting the wreath so that it lay draped across his palm, and examined the fragile linking of the flower stems, recalling the effort Káta had put into its construction. Her attentiveness to the task had engrossed him, her expression of calm concentration one he would never tire of. He turned the wreath over, letting the petals slide between his fingers, tickling his palm. The flowers had already begun to wilt a little, and Loki gently closed his hand over them, looking up with unseeing eyes. How was it that he could ever be worthy of her?

A flash of black fury darted into his mind, and his fingers tightened, crushing the delicate interweaving of blossoms, and he bowled the bird of the desk with a violent swipe of his fist. He stood there, fuming and rigid, absent from location and memory, his mind choked in darkness.

Eventually, awareness began to seep back into him, and he was astonished to find that his cheeks were wet with his own tears. The darkness began to recede from his mind, and he looked down at the crushed flowers in his hand, recalling what he did in his anger, and dropped the crumpled garland, rushing over to the corner that he had knocked the carving into, scrabbling about on the floor on his hands and knees, and sending things flying in his haste to find it.

Eventually he spotted the carving in a corner, and pounced on it, relief flooding his mind and heart before being replaced by terror. The bird had been all but cracked cleanly in two by its impact with the stone wall. The break ran down the centre, opening up a crevasse that ran through the bird’s breast and heart, a single vein of wood branching the divide.

Loki knew what it meant, because the truth was already all too plain in his heart. He broke things – damaged things, precious things, and he could not be trusted with them.

A little moan of aching dissent came from his lips, and he quickly reunited the pieces, fixing them with seiðr. The bird now whole once more, he clutched it to his chest as he stumbled towards his bed, falling to his knees, unable to let go of it, and unable to let go of Káta, pained by his own weakness.

 

*

 

“Ah! Just the god we were looking for!” Balli cried from his place at a table surrounded by his usual friends, standing to greet Thor as he entered the mead hall.

“What is it that you wish of me, Balli? A drinking competition? Surely you remember how poorly you fared in our last match.” Thor replied, grinning as the other gods joined in with guffaws at the memory.

“No, no, no, something much simpler than that,” Balli said quickly, “we were hoping you might have information about this rumour going around about Prince Loki.”

“Oh?” Thor asked interestedly, sitting down and pulling over a huge tankard of mead. “What would that be?”

“He’s been seen with a _woman_ ,” Balli said eagerly. Thor paused, an eyebrow raised, interested for the first time. “Höðr said he saw him with a girl in the corridors a while back, but you know how impressionable he is,” Balli flicked Höðr a patronising grin, while Höðr seized the nearest loaf of bread from the table and threw it at Balli’s head indignantly.

“I can hear you know!”

Balli chuckled.

“Finish your tale, Balli.” Thor prompted, a little impatient that his drink was to be thus disturbed for so long.

“Well,” Balli said conspiratorially, pulling over a handmaiden, who sat on his lap with a giggle, “Skálphæna here is one of Loki’s handmaidens, and she and the others all have seen this girl coming and leaving and staying in Loki’s chambers. She’s the only one who can control him when he has his fits.”

Thor eyed the girl on Balli’s knee. “Is this true?”

She nodded, flushing. “Yes, my Prince. She was very kind to me.”

“What does she look like, this woman? You are sure it was not Loki in disguise?” Thor had been subject to that particular ruse more times than he wished to count.

“I’m sure, my Prince. She had long dark hair and golden eyes. I came in, and the Prince became angry that I had seen them together, and he got so angry that I fainted; he used his…his… _powers_ ,” she shuddered.

“What did he do with them?” Thor asked curiously.

“He set himself on fire.” Skálphæna whispered. “It scared me terribly. But she calmed him down, and woke me up, and helped me out. I swear by Odin it’s true, your highness, I swear.”

Thor frowned down into his tankard, faint memories of a dark haired girl with golden eyes surfacing along with books; lots of books. His brow furrowed even more, and then suddenly the memory returned to him. Loki and the girl _had_ been together in the library – and they had been getting along together rather well, if he remembered rightly. He grinned. “I’ve seen him with her before, Balli,” he said, draining his tankard.

Balli crowed with delight, and he and the other gods set to talking over the matter, a few disgruntled individuals handing over money from lost bets. Thor, meanwhile, was thinking.

 

Thor strode through the corridors towards Loki’s Halls. His brother had been on his mind often of late. Ever since the disastrous audience with their father concerns had begun to rise in the back of his mind, and he was unused to feeling anxious. It troubled him the way flies troubled a horse, and he had not been sure how to deal with them, which troubled him still further. Of course, it was not unusual for Loki’s audiences with their father to follow such a trajectory – in fact, it was actually the norm. But it _had_ been a long time since one had happened, and in the intervening time even he had noticed Loki’s extra irregularities and absences.

Now, however, everything had fallen into place. Women troubles explained it all. Thor couldn’t help but chuckle as he walked along. The very thought of Loki having women troubles was so terribly unlikely he had never thought to entertain it. But now that he thought on it, it really was to be expected. As far as he knew Loki’s experience with women was minimal, and thinker as his brother was, Thor thought it safe to assume that his little brother was overthinking the matter, and had probably dug himself into a deep hole of complications as a result. He couldn’t help but feel quite proud of Loki, at last diving into the vast pool of manly pleasures that there were to be afforded by the female sex, and an extra surge of pride and happiness swept him up at the thought that they might be able to bond over the matter.

Although he was not one for retrospection, whenever Thor thought back to their childhood, he could not help but wish that the friendship he and Loki had shared then could have survived through the years into their adulthood. His friends were all very well, as were his elder brothers, but there was nothing quite like having a sibling your own age, and he had always cherished the bond between he and his little brother. He missed looking out for Loki the way he had done when they had been in their infancy, and now perhaps the opportunity was returning for him to look out Loki again.

Loki’s doors loomed along the corridor ahead, and Thor strode up to them, pushing at the great slabs of wood, and parting them as easily as though they were as light as silk curtains.

He passed through the antechamber, and into the main hall, which was as gloomy and austere as it had ever been, the huge dining table that ran down the centre of the room unused. Thor glanced at the long benches that ran down the sides of the table. The benches in his own halls were polished smooth and shining from use, but Loki’s looked as though they had never been drawn out from beneath the table. The hearths to either side were cold and empty, clean of the ashes from the last fires lit in them, and Thor wondered just how long that had been. Loki was not one for entertaining, but perhaps that was about to change.

He escaped the oppressive silence of the hall, and passed through the anteroom beyond, pushing the doors into Loki’s private chambers wide.

“Brother!”

Loki looked up at the sound of Thor’s voice, frowning, and briefly contemplated disappearing as Thor advanced on him, his arms spread wide. He had been trying to read a book at his desk, but had eventually given up, and merely sat there, regarding the crushed flower wreath where he had dropped it the previous night.

Thor came up on him from behind, pulling him bodily from his seat and spinning him around, knocking the chair over as he did so, and clasping him in a tight bear hug.

“Get off me, Thor!” Loki snarled, his face squashed uncomfortably against the muscle of his brother’s shoulder.

Thor released Loki with a genial laugh, and Loki dropped back to his feet, scowling as he straightened his wrinkled clothing, although to be fair it had already been thoroughly unkempt before Thor’s greeting. “I hear you have been seen with a certain young lady,” Thor began, ribbing Loki with one elbow.

Loki’s frown deepened, and his expression became shuttered. “ _What?_ ” he spat.

“Oh, come now, don’t deny it, brother!” Thor exclaimed, giving Loki a manly clap on the back. “Balli’s been talking with your handmaidens.”

Loki cursed fluently for a moment.

Thor laughed. “Don’t be so sour; you can’t expect to keep these things to yourself, you know. And I _remember_ seeing you two together at the library!” he added triumphantly. “You were getting quite close then, if I recall correctly.” Thor winked hugely.

Loki sighed and rolled his eyes, turning to sit back down. “Go away, Thor.”

Thor smiled, and patted Loki on the shoulder. “It’s natural not to want help when things go wrong your first time round, and if you ever want to talk about it, I’ll be here.”

Loki turned in his chair and shot Thor a quizzical glance, his mood lightening a little as he thought of the hilarity that Thor giving relationship advice would be. Besides that, it had been a long time since Thor had helped him do things.

Thor seemed to notice his brother’s change of mood. “That’s the spirit! And remember; there are always plenty more fish in the sea.”

Loki’s brows contracted into a disapproving frown, and his mouth pursed. “I’m not seeing anyone,” he said firmly, turning back around in his chair and folding his arms stubbornly.

“Oh? Are you not now?” Thor stooped, scooping up the crushed flower wreath from the floor and dangling it in front of Loki’s nose. “Then I suppose you’ve just taken up making flower wreaths in your spare time?”

Loki snarled, and snatched the garland back, pressing it possessively to his chest.

“Had an argument, eh?” Thor patted Loki on the shoulder again, and Loki returned the gesture with a black look. “It’ll blow over. They always do.”

“I am in no mood to humour you, Thor. Go away before something bad happens,” Loki said curtly.

Thor raised his hands in surrender, well used to Loki’s rebuffs, and sure that his brother’s extra grouchiness stemmed from this disagreement he had had with this woman of his. “You can always talk to me, remember that,” he said, turning cheerfully enough to leave.

He crossed to the doors, and Loki turned to glance speculatively at his brother over his shoulder. A handmaiden entered, and Thor gave her a playful wink and a squeeze on the way out, leaving her blushing, and Loki disgusted.

He turned back around, flinging himself back into his chair with a snort. “Get out!” he spat, and with a squeak of fear, the girl scurried away, a glimmer of eagerness in her eyes as she followed the God of Thunder out.

For all his sullen exterior, however, Loki had paid close attention to Thor throughout their conversation. The idea that Thor wanted to help him was as perplexing as it was refreshing, and he allowed himself a brief moment of lamentation for the lost simplicity of their childhood, way back when before things had had to become complicated by such things as duty and position.

Thor’s parting had set off a new series of cogs and wheels spinning in his mind, however, and despite the disgust that his behaviour with the maid left in him, Loki could not deny the fact that there was something interesting about the matter. Thor had always broken certain rules that he himself never had – fraternising with the serving girls for one – but had never been brought up on it the way he had with his mischief.

Their father was always berating him for not being like Thor, and loath as he was to think of it, Loki could not help but wonder whether imitating Thor and his behaviour would get him the same sort of reprimands that he already received. Curious, at least for the sake of experimentation, he decided to grapple with the next handmaiden to come in. An image of Káta floated across his mind, and he could feel the bird carving where it pressed into his leg, for he had stowed it in his pocket upon waking; his conscience burned in a way that it had not for a very long time. But Loki shrugged the notion off, the thought of earning his father’s love and respect holding up a tantalising flicker of hope that he was too used to chasing to abandon now.

 

Káta returned to see Loki the following day, and was confronted with the sight of him agitatedly striding back and forth, twisting something that she eventually recognised to be the bird carving in his hands. He paused and opened his mouth to speak a number of times, but each time words seemed to desert him, and he would return to his pacing.

Káta sat in her accustomed chair, waiting patiently until he had gathered his thoughts sufficiently to speak.

“If you place any value on yourself, you will leave me. I…I _ruin_ things. _Precious things_.” Loki had spent the entirety of the night trying to think of what to say to Káta, to warn her about himself, and yet words still deserted him, fleeing from his intentions as though in protest. He thrust the carving at her, urging her to take it with his eyes.

Káta frowned, looking between him and the carving, her eyes wide with bewilderment. “I place a high value on myself; and that is why I stay. Because I see that value in you. And you _don’t_ ruin things.” She folded his fingers back over the bird, pushing his hand back to him, held in hers.

Loki shook his head emphatically, shoving the carving back towards her. “Take it!” he commanded, his voice rough and husky with raw emotion. “You’ve got to take it! I can’t – I _can’t_ have precious things! I taint them; I’m not worthy of them!”

Káta wrapped her hands more tightly over Loki’s, desperate to stop him. “It _is_ there, Loki,” she insisted gently. “You just can’t see it. You don’t see yourself through your own eyes; you see yourself through your father’s – just as everyone else does.”

Loki stilled, gazing at Káta with a mixture of terror and disagreement.

“What other people think of you doesn’t matter. None of us are perfect. But we have to accept ourselves for who we are. Some things can be changed, others can’t. But we have to be able to see ourselves clearly, otherwise we’ll never know who we really are. We’ll spend our lives chasing someone else’s dreams otherwise – someone else’s ideas of who and what we are. You have to see yourself as yourself. You have to see your own uniqueness; it’s that – that spark that makes us special. It’s our differences that make us extraordinary, and worthy of all that we wish for, not our similarities. You belong to you and you alone, and you have to love what you see.”

“ _Love_ ,” Loki snorted bitterly.

“To love is to forgive,” Káta replied gently. “To forgive is to accept the wrongs that you have done, the parts of yourself that you are ashamed of. Acceptance is different from condoning; if you accept you do not ignore your darkest self – you acknowledge it, and acknowledge the fact that it no longer has to define you. That you shape your own destiny; not others, not your own past self. _You_. In that moment, in the present, you can decide to be whatever you wish to be. Do whatever you wish to do.

“That is the power of love; loving yourself. It heals that which hurts most – that which you think has no salve. It does not make you complete; but it gives you the opportunity to become so. Until you love yourself, you won’t see your own value. Until you see yourself through your own eyes, you won’t be able to forgive and accept who and what you are; and you will never see just what you could be.”

Káta gazed into Loki’s overwhelmed eyes with gentle earnestness for a few long moments, and then quietly left with an encouraging pat of her fingers on his.

 

Loki was in his study when he heard the faint sound of approaching footsteps echoing in the hall beyond. They were light and brisk, and definitely female, and he wondered why it was that Káta was returning. His study was where he had stored all of his sketches of Káta, and he had retreated there after their conversation, idly leafing through his drawings as he meditated on what she had said. Her definition of love was so contrary to his own that it seemed ludicrous that such a dichotomy could even exist, but even as he examined his own ideas regarding the concept he found that they had somewhat changed from what they had formerly been. When or how this had happened, he did not know, nor was he entirely sure exactly what his convictions had transformed into, but they seemed sweeter, and less painful than his prior beliefs. He had been on the brink of further investigating this curiosity, but now, distracted by her unexpected return, his thoughts had scattered.

He turned with a mixture of questioning and eagerness as she entered, wondering what it was had brought her back when it had seemed clear that she was happy to leave him alone with his thoughts for the rest of the day.

A handmaiden stood in the doorway, startled by the swiftness of his movement.

Loki stared at her, frozen.

The handmaiden seemed equally surprised to see him as he her, but she shook it off and dropped a quick curtsey. “Apologies, Prince Loki, I did not know you were in here.”

Loki watched her, his eyes narrowed, faint thoughts of his experiment returning to him. “What’s your name?”

The girl, whose eyes had been fixed on the floor between them looked up in surprise, meeting his eyes for the most fleeting of moments before she lowered her gaze once more. “Tófa, Prince Loki.”

Loki made to take a step towards her, but his body juddered to a halt before he had moved more than half a pace. He remained where he had stopped, locked in his own body, the breath coming in and out of his lungs but not seeming to give him any of the sustenance that he required from it.

He studied the waiting handmaiden, whose expression of confusion was growing the longer the silence stretched between them, and Loki allowed his eyes to drift away from her to the walls of his study. His sketches of Káta were everywhere, stuck to walls, rolled up in drawers, and covering table tops. Her eyes were repeated over and over again, all of them gazing at him with such earnestness, with such trust, the trust only she had ever granted him, that Loki knew at once that he would not be able to betray even the mere memory of her. Everything that Káta was, the handmaiden was not, right down to the expression of distaste that he had seen when she had met his eyes.

“Go.”

Tófa frowned, meeting his eyes again, and again he saw the aversion that mingled with her confusion in them.

“ _Go!_ ” Loki bellowed, the words ripping out of him.

The handmaiden did not wait for a third injunction, but seized her skirts and ran from him all too eagerly, leaving Loki to fall into a chair as he crumbled from within, hiding his face in his hands.

He shuddered with revulsion as the thought of Káta ever finding out what he had been entertaining entered his mind. After all that she had made him feel, all the goodness, all the light she had helped him see, he had been about to forsake her and all of it on a mere gambit; to satisfy his curiosity. He hated himself with a passion for it. He wanted to erase every memory of Káta, every feeling they had ever shared, he didn’t want to have to battle with himself any more, to feel himself torn in half at the mere thought of her. It all hurt too much, and his struggles were not about to come to anything. She had thought he could love, love himself, that he could forgive and accept and acknowledge the darkest parts within him, but she had been so much more than wrong. He was not designed for love. Not to give, nor to receive it; he knew that now. All thought and memory of her had to go if he were to ever have any peace.

He tore savagely at himself from the inside, pulling himself apart at the seams in a wild whirlwind of self-loathing and disgust, determined to inflict as much pain as possible to pay for the betrayal of her trust, to in some way atone for his own immense unworthiness. It felt as though long trails of barbed string had been wrapped over and over around and about his heart, and he was ripping them out now, one by one, at first slowly but then faster and faster in his desperation, and the more pain he felt, the more it spurred him on.

 

*

 

Loki appeared abruptly before Káta in her room with a surge of angry air. It had been three days since they had last spoken. Káta had felt it prudent not to push Loki on the matter, but to give him space and privacy, and so had kept to her rooms at Mærsalr.

“ _Why?_ Why do you keep doing this to me?” Loki demanded.

“Doing what, Loki?” she asked, mystified and frightened by the angry confusion of his expression and aggression of his question. He looked deranged, wild in a way that she had never seen him before. His hair and clothing were dishevelled, his eyes wide with a constant kaleidoscope of flickering emotions, and he spun on the spot as though his body had to maintain a perpetual motion in accord with that of his mind. She had had high hopes that he might have taken her words to heart, but she had never expected them to result in such a reaction as this.

“Why do you tell me these things? Why do you always insist on telling them to me?!” Loki raged bewilderedly, more to himself than to her, storming up and down, all the damage that he had done to himself in the intervening time brimming up and spilling over into his expression.

Understanding came to Káta like a breath of air. “Because I care about you.” She said simply, earnestly trying to meet his wild eyes as he raged back and forth before her, tossing his head like an uneasy horse. He refused to meet her eyes, however, but Káta persevered, some part of her aware that this was her last chance. “I care about you enough to tell you the truth, even though the truth hurts. The truth hurts more than all the lies sometimes, Loki. But that’s because honesty is what we _need_ to hear, not what we _want_. It has to be said. It _demands_ to be said; to be heard. You’ve _got_ to hear it, Loki.”

“I don’t want to hear it! I don’t _have_ to hear it! I don’t care! I _don’t_!”

Káta leapt to her feet and seized Loki by his forearms, stilling him for the first time. “But don’t you see?” she cried, gazing desperately up into his face. “You _do_ care! If you didn’t care you wouldn’t mind hearing it, but you _do_ care, and that’s why you don’t want to hear it; because it hurts. It hurts to care.”

Loki’s head dropped, and all the fight seemed to suddenly drain out of him. “Then I don’t want to care about anything at all,” he muttered. “I’ve had enough of caring…I’ve had enough of hurting.” His voice ached with the agonies of his past.

Káta released him as though repelled by some sort of force and drew back a step, her heart stinging. “Sometimes you’ve got to risk everything you have to get everything you dream of,” she said slowly, the ache of her own heart tinging her words now. “I would rather hurt than feel nothing at all. If temporary pain is the price of joy that I will be able to remember for the rest of my life, then so be it. That’s a risk I’m willing to take. One good memory is enough to bring light in the darkness of a thousand bad ones. That is my choice…I can’t make yours for you.”

It was becoming hopeless, Káta knew. It was as though Loki was steadily sinking underwater, and she was desperately swimming between him and the surface, breathing the air from her lungs into his to preserve him, as all the while he sank ever deeper. And each time she returned there was less air in her lungs to give to him, and he needed it ever the more the deeper he fell. She was not sure what Loki would make of her words, or even whether he had heard them at all. But it didn’t matter. There was no more she could do. No more she could say. She knew that now was the moment when she had to let go of him, and trust that he would find his way. They could argue about it until the end of the world, and it would not change his opinion. She had said all she could say. It was up to him now.

He gazed at her for a long moment of stillness amongst the previous chaos of his movement. His eyes were burning into hers with a whirlpool of emotions that all flashed by so quickly she was unable to name them all, only be sucked in by them, drawn into the confused turbulence of his gaze and all that it contained; the wildness, the fear, the pain, the hope, the resistance; the utter mayhem of it. And then he was gone.

 

Neither Loki nor Káta attempted to see one another over the proceeding days. It was as though they had reached some kind of unspoken agreement; some wordless decision had been made for them to take a respite from one another, and to both it came with a distinct feeling of relief.

Loki, his mind awash with the red mist rising from the self-destruction he had begun, felt as though he was at last able to think clearly for the first time in weeks. The pain made him see clearly, it sharpened his focus until it had a knife’s edge, and there was no denying the conclusions that he came to with it, carving into himself as he decided. He knew, whatever else any other part of him wished to think, he knew that Káta was precious to him. He had seen her hurt, by himself and others, and he could not stand the thought of the pain she would experience when she found out what he really was. He knew that he would never be able to forgive any pain he put her through because of her own good-hearted stubbornness, not now when he had the very tools to prevent it. His course of direction was clear.

It felt as though he was cutting himself open and pulling out that which kept him alive – throwing it away – but much as it hurt to distance himself from Káta, that pain was nothing to what he would feel when she eventually realised who and what he was; the betrayal that she would feel with that realisation. He knew he would see it cloud over her beautifully trusting golden eyes; he knew it just as he knew that the sun would rise at dawn. And he could not _bear_ that. He had seen it in the eyes of practically every single person he had met in his life, and he knew that she was the one person he could not see it happen to. Because that really would destroy him. He knew what he was. He knew he couldn’t expect all that he yearned and wished for from Káta, because he knew that he was not worthy of it. And it was better, less painful, if he stopped it now, himself. It would be better for her.

He crossed to his desk, and pulled out a fresh piece of paper, settling down to write a note to Káta.

 

“You have to stop.”

Káta frowned. She had received Loki’s note asking her to come, and they had barely reappeared in his rooms before his baffling injunction. “Stop what?”

“Coming back,” Loki said firmly. He was determined not to look at her. “I-you…you’re better off without me.”

“No, Loki. I’m not.” Káta’s voice was as firm as Loki’s own, and she marched around to stand in front of him. He kept his eyes fixed on the wall above her head. “I’m not going anywhere. I won’t stop coming back. I won’t leave you alone. I promised, remember? You asked, and I _promised_.”

Loki trembled a moment, doing fierce battle with his will, and then allowed his eyes to slide to meet hers. “Why?” the question escaped him, unbidden and against his will, even as he desperately yearned for the answer.

“Because I _care_ for you.” Káta felt like a parrot, endlessly circling on the same sentence, but it was all she could think of it say, because it was the truth; it was the highest truth that inhabited her body, paramount to all others. “I _care_.”

The words seemed to incite some sort of fury in Loki, for he spun away with a snarl. “Why? Why, why, why, _why_ , _WHY?!_ ” he bellowed. “Why should you care about me? Look at me! Can’t you see what I am?!”

“That’s not who you are!” Káta cried desperately, moving to seize Loki’s hands, but faltering as he flinched violently from her touch, turning from her to quickly stride several paces away; a safe distance between them. Káta clutched at herself in his absence. “You’re worth more than that! You _are_ worthy!”

“ _I AM NOT WORTH ANYTHING!_ ” Loki screamed at the ceiling, tearing at his tunic and shredding the fabric as though he wished to rip his heart from his chest and end his unceasing frustration once and for all. “ _I AM NOT!_ ” he glanced at her, and the self-loathing in his expression stopped Káta’s heart. He was filled with an unbending hatred, poisoned and turned against himself. “You can’t mean it…any of it. It’s all lies. I’m not meant to be cared for. I _meant_ to be hated. Don’t you understand? Any good that comes into my life dies; I touch it and it turns to ash. And I can’t see it happen to you!” The agonised words were screwed out of him now, at the end of his world. “Can’t you see? This is my last good act. Go. You’ve _got_ to _go_!” he was on the verge of disintegration from the pressure he was exerting on himself.

“Loki, I –” she was desperate to say it, every instinct in her heart and mind was screaming at her to just let it out, because he _needed_ to hear it; now. Now more than ever. The three words she had been unable to bring to say to herself ever since she had realised them when they had been on the roof of Valhalla together. Because she had realised then the same devastating truth that now stopped her from speaking them. Because she _knew_ it would destroy their relationship if she said it now. She couldn’t give in; not yet. He was too fragile; too brittle at the moment. And a wrong move on her part would destroy everything that they already had; everything that she wanted them to have. And she was not willing to lose his trust. “I won’t come back, if that’s what you want.” She said shakily. “But I’ll always be here if you need me… Even if you don’t, I’ll be here,” she whispered, shredding her heart with frustration as she said it, and swallowing the immense knot of pain that had risen up from her gut and was now trying to choke her. “That’s my heart’s truth,” and then she was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...it's not exactly Christmassy in content (Merry Christmas to you, by the way), BUT OH WELL.  
> Yes, it's a long chapter, yes there's a lot in it, YES THE FEELS HAVE (hopefully) HIT YOU LIKE A PUNCH TO THE GUT. Because they certainly got me, and no, I'm not crying, my eyes are just watering my face. Back to that in a minute - I'll go through the chapter chronologically.
> 
> Oh, Loki. His lack of self-worth, and then the immense value he places on Kata, and the fact that she even wants to stay around him, and his not understanding any of it = so much sad. SO MUCH SAD. And Kata's trying so hard to help him, and to show him *sniffs*  
> And then Loki and the bird carving. *sniffs louder*  
> BUT THOR AND HIS BROTHERLY ADVICE XD EHEHEHEHHE He's actually a little bit more perceptive than Loki thinks.  
> And as for Loki's attempted experiment... *shakes head* The poor darling still wants his father's love so badly. *rolls up sleeves to give Odin a lesson* AND THEN HIS SELF DESTRUCTION *CLAWS AT FACE* And Kata was so CLOSE to telling him that she loves him! *flops into pillow to recuperate*
> 
> Also, the handmaiden's names:  
> Skálphæna – "scullery water/dish water", metaphorically applied to gossip i.e. the type of talk women do while scrubbing, and "hen" (because she goes and gossips about Loki with the gods, how rude!)  
> Tófa - "a handmaiden" (kind of self explanatory XP)
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it :D
> 
> Merry Christmas x
> 
>  
> 
> Please give Kudos and/or comment :) Tell me what you like or don’t like :) Questions and speculations are always welcome :D As is incomprehensible flailing if that's what you go in for :)  
> Also, if you like this story, or any of my other ones, and you want access to sneak previews on chapters that I'm working on, you can Like my Facebook page, and Follow my Twitter or Tumblr :)  
> https://www.facebook.com/josephinetomkinsauthor  
> https://twitter.com/jtomkinsauthor  
> http://jzj-tomkins.tumblr.com/


	38. Unravelling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As he falls through the oblivion of his mind, the forces of darkness and light within him do fierce battle for possession of Loki and his soul.

Loki stayed where Káta had left him long after she had gone; rigid, the battle he had undergone while she was there yet to reach a conclusion. There were too many parts inside him all of a sudden. Too many paths that various aspects of himself were trying to push him down, but none of which he truly understood because of all the confusion. Too many desires and ideas all conflicting with each other in a cacophony of screaming protests and furious exhortations that made it feel as though his head was about to split in half from the endless pounding of it all.

He wanted it all to stop. For the restful ease of silence to fill his mind as it usually did when Káta was with him. But of late she had been more of a disturbance than a balm to his thoughts. Old parts of him that had guided him for so long were suddenly becoming redundant, and shrieking as he tried to get rid of them, tearing strips out of his mind, berating him for his weakness; his foolishness. But the new parts – the warmth and the pain and the promise that she had brought into him through a door in his chest that he had forgotten existed – they refused to let go. They stood their ground with silent defiance; willing him to ignore the shadows from his past and to take his place with them in the light.

Fear clouded his mind, and he felt himself stretched between these two halves of himself; each side tugging ready to tear him in half, unwilling to give ground, forcing him to remain undecided at the crossroads. The babel of it all rose up, swamping him, and for the first time in his life Loki pressed his fingers desperately to his temples, his hands shaking with the effort, and pushed a jagged spike of seiðr through his mind, blacking out as white stars of pain blotted out his eyesight.

 

Days and nights passed unmarked by the comatose Loki.

When the handmaidens eventually braved entering after nearly three days, and found his body, slumped on its side, half sitting on the edge of his bed where he had fallen, they had run shrieking from the room, screaming murder. The entirety of Valhalla had been turned over in the uproar, swarming like a kicked over nest of ants, and gods and goddesses had flocked to Loki’s halls. Whatever feelings any of them harboured against Loki, the death of a god was not something to be ignored.

Frigg descended on her son’s rooms, Thor and her handmaidens in tow, gathering Eir along the way, the group close on her heels as she ran through the corridors with greater swiftness than any had yet witnessed her move with. The crowd of waiting gods and goddesses that had already begun to assemble outside the Prince’s private chambers parted for her like the sea, and all waited anxiously as the doors closed behind the party, many taking seats on the unused benches and settles that had long furnished the dining hall which so few of them were familiar with.

Inside, Frigg fell upon her younger son, turning him over in her arms, and feeling at his neck for a pulse. He was unmistakably alive, and tempted as she was to dismiss the offending handmaidens and banish them to another world for causing her such a shock, Frigg constrained her natural inclinations and had to content herself with sending Thor out to address the crowd, and impart the news that Loki was, in fact, alive. The gods and goddesses dispersed with a good deal of muttering, some few a little chagrined, and others annoyed at the inconvenience, and all wondering what the actual case was. Thor’s unimpressed bellow at their surliness reminded them all why he was the God of Thunder however, and a Prince to boot, and they departed soon after with minimal grumbling.

In Loki’s chambers, however, Frigg and Eir were still discovering exactly what had happened to Loki, having moved him to lie flat on his back in the centre of his bed, his head propped up on his pillows with the help of Fulla and Hlín, Gná having hurriedly elected to go and check whether Odin had heard any of the ruckus, and to distract him if need be.

Eir sat by Loki’s side, her hands on either side of his face, an inch or so away from touching him, her eyes closed as she examined and travelled the activity of his mind. Her eyes flickered beneath their lids, her smooth brow furrowed with a frown that wavered between confusion and pain. Her breathing remained slow and constant, however, and eventually she opened her eyes.

“It is confusing, my lady,” she said slowly, rubbing her palms together as though to dispel the charge she had picked up from Loki’s thoughts. “It would seem that he knocked himself out…intentionally.”

Frigg frowned. “Intentionally?”

Eir sighed. “His mind is very confused at the moment, and it makes it harder for me to understand. There is…a _war_ happening inside him.” She shook her head with a mixture of sadness and incomprehension. “That is about the only thing I could ascertain for certain. He is tearing himself apart on the inside – I can only assume that he did this to himself in an attempt at respite – it is…very dark in there.”

They all glanced over at Loki where he lay, seemingly at peace.

Eir opened her mouth to make some further comment, but was interrupted by the bang of the doors being flung open as Odin marched in, Gungnir in his hand, and Gná trailing meekly in his wake, gazing at her mistress apologetically.

“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded imperiously.

“Loki’s life is not in danger; you need not worry, my dear,” Frigg replied hastily in strained tones as she quickly crossed to her husband, laying a placating hand on his arm.

Odin ignored her, however, slamming the butt of his staff onto the floor with a crash. “Valhalla is in uproar and I am not to worry?! What has Loki done this time?”

“Nothing, he’s ill is all,” Frigg replied.

Odin turned his eye upon his prostrate son, staring aggressively at him for a moment, and then turned and left, muttering something to himself in which the word “lazy” was distinguishable.

On the bed, Loki shifted very slightly, a flicker of anguish darting across his expression, unnoticed by all, before he lapsed back into stillness once more.

Frigg, Eir, and the handmaidens watched and waited, and once Odin had departed all seemed to let out a simultaneous held breath.

“Can you lift him out of it?” Frigg asked, composed once more, her expression filled with an aching motherly concern as she turned to her son.

“Yes,” replied Eir slowly, “but I do not think it wise, my lady. As I said, he did this to himself, it may be that he is trying to overcome whatever wildness it is that is in his mind.”

“Do you know what it might do?”

Eir sighed heavily. “No,” she said after a very long silence. “But I can tell you one thing for certain; the Prince will be different afterwards, whatever the outcome.”

“Thank you, Eir,” Frigg said quietly. Her eyes had not shifted from Loki’s face the entire time, and it was clear that she wished to be left alone with him. Fulla and Hlín preceded Eir, going and opening the doors to the antechamber, ushering out the abashed Gná with censuring expressions, and closing them behind themselves as they exited.

Frigg passed over to the bed, and sat on the edge, brushing back a stray tangle of Loki’s unkempt locks. He looked worn out. Her hands found his on the bedclothes, and she held it tightly. “My poor boy, my poor poor boy,” she whispered, bowing her head over his hand, and letting her sobs at last shake her body.

 

*

 

In his mind, Loki plummeted through bottomless space, swallowed in darkness that seemed form into wraiths that clung to him, pulling at his essence. He tried to swat them away, but they swept effortlessly beyond his grasp even as their shapeless fingers continued to clutch at him, somehow hooked right inside him, their barbed grasp in his deepest self. He could feel them dragging him further down, pulling mercilessly to accelerate his relentless descent. He tried to use his seiðr to halt his fall, but nothing happened. There was only him in the impenetrable darkness, and those hands, pulling him ever deeper.

He stared wildly around, trying to see through the shifting mists surrounding him, straining his eyes to make out even the faintest speck of light, a speck of something – _anything_ – beyond himself and the darkness that encased him. But he could see only his own body, illuminated in some way that he did not know, and ever falling. But even he was beginning to become darker. He raised a hand before his eyes, and another shade of dimness seemed to fall over his vision so that his skin, which before had seemed to glow brightly with its own light, dulled in the murk clouding his eyes.

He cried out in alarm, calling for help, calling for Káta, for Fróði, for his mother, for Thor. But his voice seemed awfully small in all the darkness, muffled and soft, as though he had fallen into the Sea of Space and was no more than the smallest of flecks in the vast, ever unrolling cosmic landscape. Fear shot through his heart, and he reached up to where the sky ought to be, his face turned upwards, the plea on his lips ringing in his heart.

_HELP!_

And light sped down to him.

Never before had anything been so beautiful, so welcome. The bright, white gold spears soared effortlessly towards him, cutting easily through the sticky blackness as though it wasn’t there, curling down gently to encircle him with a soft but firm grip, slowing his progress, and beginning to pull him back up.

The hold that the darkness had around his legs tightened, the fingers biting into him, and he could feel more hands coming out of the murk, uncountable numbers massing and teeming about him, swarming in anger and taking hold of him, their grip extending up his legs from his ankles, over his shins, and past his knees until they had him up to his hips, straining to reach his heart. But the light had already reached that far as well, enveloping his torso in gentle warmth. There, in the middle of him, the two did battle – the darkness straining to drag him further down, roiling in ever increasing rage, as it attempted to reach his heart, while the light bathed him in its hope-giving warmth, pulling him inexorably upwards.

The two seemed to have reached some kind of a deadlock, for his fall had halted, and he neither rose nor fell, for there were only the two powers lashing out at each other around him, fighting for the custody of his essence, for his very soul.

He did not know whether he was imagining it at first, but the light seemed to slowly grow in intensity, filling his vision, its brightness increasing until it obliterated the darkness from his sight, blinding him to it completely so that only light remained. As he lost sight of the darkness, its grip on him seemed to loosen a little, as though its strength had been dealt a heavy blow, and the light began to pull him up with greater might, and at long last, he began to rise.

The ascent was slow at first, but then the grip of the darkness seemed to slip, and he shot joyfully upwards, soaring effortlessly on and away, up and up, picking up speed until he could have raced shooting stars across the sky, until he thought he might burst through the very roof of the heavens, and go on into whatever lay beyond.

But the darkness was not defeated yet. It swarmed back up at him, seizing his ankles, the only part of him that the light was yet to reach, and taking a punishing grip on them, yanking him back down with the brute force of spiteful fury. He dropped like a stone thrown into water, but the light was stronger now, and fought back, slowly edging its way under the grip of the darkness, and pushing it away, prising it off him until there was only the faintest grip of the black wraiths on his toes.

A shot of pain burst through him, as though a barbed needle had been thrust into his toes, and pushed further and further into him with ruthless, destructive anger, reaching for his heart. Loki cried out in pain, feeling his insides slicing as it propelled on through him, each moment nearing its destination with a malevolent intent to destroy.

But the light had swarmed around his feet now, engulfing them so that only a hairsbreadth of the darkness remained, pushing its cruel way onwards through him fuelled by the energy of the desperate. The light had taken hold of the darkness now, however, and was pulling it back, towing the barb back out of him. Loki yelled himself hoarse as it was extracted, the pain beyond all his experience in the corporeal world of the flesh, feeling its reverse hooked prongs snagging on his essence as it was drawn out, tearing at him and shredding its path out and leaving a scarred and damaged trail behind to mark its presence.

The light extracted the darkness faster and faster, until finally the last of it was removed and thrown back into the abyss that it had risen out of with a defeated shriek of defiance, and then he was soaring as he had not before – no longer beholden to the light to carry him, but flying of his own accord, lighter than he had ever been, lifted of an enormous burden, for all the pain that continued to ache within him, but free, free and flying like the birds he had watched fill the skies so many times, free and flying like Káta and her sweet-faced mare across the Plains of Ida, free at long last. The light seemed to be singing around him as they spiralled up, up and up, up and out, the brightness that engulfed him ever intensifying, until at last he could distinguish no difference between the individual beams and rays, but just a single whiteness that blotted his vision entirely, burning him up in the most delicious way imaginable.

And he knew then that he had set his foot on the right path. Not merely set his foot on it, but he had begun to run down it, filled with the most indescribable, laughing elation, reckless with his own joy, and eager to discover where it led.

 

Loki felt himself beginning to fade back into consciousness. He was cold and stiff, and lying on his back in the centre of his bed, although he did not remember lying down. Memories floated, nebulous and distant, beyond his reach and fuzzy interest. He felt…emptier. Washed out by some sort of cleansing fire, but standing in the aftermath, surrounded by the debris that remained. Parts of his mind felt like they were rising up and floating away like soggy pieces of bread in a fish pond. He felt…nibbled at. Long standing parts of him that he had thought to be cast out of iron had somehow become unravelled like a ball of string.

Panic began to set in as he realised this, instinctively groping wildly at the pieces floating away and coming apart within him, trying to restore some sense of order in the sudden drifting chaos; trying to reassemble it all. But the more he moved the faster it all seemed to fall apart, fraying ideals and notions that he had held for decades suddenly disparate fragments in his mind that no longer made sense, pieces of a puzzle that had ceased to fit together.

All of them shattered and fell, escaping his desperate grasp, so that he was left casting wildly about in an empty landscape for that which he knew was never coming back. The darkness that had inhabited him had fled, but left behind a barren wasteland. Bewildered and alone, he stood a great gaping chasm in his chest and emptiness in his mind.

Except he wasn’t alone.

With the departure of the shadows and wraiths he had so desperately pursued – of that which he had always known; all he had ever known, it seemed – he was finally able to see what was left behind. A tiny something…a package, small and plump, but sturdy looking, lay on the ground before him. The earth it lay on was rich and dark, not the dry grey he was used to treading, and he was almost afraid to touch it, until he remembered that those fears which might once have held him back had now gone. What he felt was only a ghost; the quickly fading imprint of that which had once been, and which he hoped never to be again. Tenderly he gathered the package up, clasping it to his chest, knowing that this amongst everything was the most precious of possessions.

As he took it up the smallest of green shoots began to sprout from the earth, its richness spreading out in an errant starburst of fecundity from where he stood, clutching his only bundle, the only bundle that mattered, turning the dry grey dirt to fertile soil, and bringing the tentative, yet stubborn, beginnings of new life with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a bit abstract in places, but here is the answer to what happens to Loki after Káta leaves :)  
> AND OMG IT'S SO EXCITING BECAUSE HE'S TURNED THE CORNER *flappy hands of excitement*
> 
> And yes, it is also short because it was going to be longer, then got too long, and had to be cut in half. But you got it earlier than I was planning because I received a very nice request that I post one more chapter before the New Year. (In other news, I hope you all had a lovely Christmas, or, if you don't celebrate Christmas, a lovely festive event of your choosing, or if you celebrate nothing at all, a lovely few days in which to capitalise on the Christmas and Boxing Day sales XP).
> 
> Um...I think that's about all... You won't get the next chapter until late in January because I will be going away (maybe not even until very early February, because I'm going away again after I get back from going away), so...yes.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it, and have a very Happy New Year! :D
> 
>  
> 
> Please give Kudos and/or comment :) Tell me what you like or don’t like :) Questions and speculations are always welcome :D As is incomprehensible flailing if that's what you go in for :)  
> Also, if you like this story, or any of my other ones, and you want access to sneak previews on chapters that I'm working on, you can Like my Facebook page, and Follow my Twitter or Tumblr :)  
> https://www.facebook.com/josephinetomkinsauthor  
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	39. Unfurling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battle over, Loki begins to ease into his new and unburdened self, and is at last able to reconnect more closely with those he truly cares about.

Káta had come away somehow simultaneously distraught and yet serene. It was not that her heart was breaking, but she had felt the first crack strike through it like a bolt of lightning, and she cradled the fragile piece as she made her way home, knowing all the way that telling Loki how she felt, how she only now could acknowledge she felt, would have only destroyed him, and distraught that it was so. For all the pain of her heart, however, she knew that she could have done nothing more for Loki, neither in that moment, nor in any that had passed before, and it gave her a tiny fragment of tranquillity that she held onto fiercely.

As the days passed, Káta stowed away her feelings, lidding her overflowing heart, knowing there was little point in brooding over them when she neither could nor would act on them, and she slowly began to feel some resemblance of peace for the first time in many months. It was as though knowing that she had done all she could do, some measure of calm had finally been restored to her mind, although it did nothing to prevent her from feeling concerned about Loki. But she knew that matters were no longer in her hands; everything was up to Loki now, and if she had succeeded, as she dared to hope on the finer days, when all she wanted to do was lean out of her window with her eyes shut, the sun on her lids and the wind in her hair, if she had succeeded, then Loki would come to her when he was ready.

She did not dare think about the other outcome. Not even when the night was at its darkest, when for others their fears would be closing in, for at night she was never in complete darkness, the luminance of her own skin a comfort to her when things seemed bleak. She had never learnt to fear the darkness of night. The evenings remained balmy, and she started going out onto the roof, curling up in a new position, facing the great black shadow that was the tor of Valhalla by night, a dark finger projecting into the speckled blanket of stars, just to think of Loki, and send him all the best wishes of her yearning heart. On some nights a chill would set in, and she would drag her furs up with her, determined not to be stopped, and sit curled within them, gazing steadily up at the faint glimmer that was Valhalla, holding Loki safe in her heart.

No word of the panic that had consumed Valhalla, nor of Loki’s condition had made its way beyond the gods and goddesses. Frigg had ensured the absolute discretion of the entire Æsir population, and in moments such as those, the gods and goddesses were reminded why it was sometimes sensible to fear their Queen more than their King. As a result, Káta was blissfully unaware of Loki’s condition, and as the weeks passed, and he remained sunk deep in his coma, she did her best not to worry at his absence, and to preserve her hope.

Her visits to Fróði gradually increased until she was going to see him every day, spending the chief part of her time in his company, for there was something soothing about the old god’s presence, and Fróði was as patient with her as he had ever been with Loki.

 

*

 

Loki, when he finally re-joined the waking world, had been away for a full three weeks, and just about to begin on his fourth. His body was weakened by his mental ordeal, and the inactivity it had entailed, and it was all he could do to open his eyes for the first time.

Frigg had been his diligent carer throughout his unconsciousness, and had washed his face each morning and night, and dribbled what she could between his lips by way of nourishment and water no fewer than five times a day, so he did not feel as ill as he might have. His strength was sapped however, but staring up at the canopy of his bed, his eyes un-focusing and refocusing on the still-life painting of a tree canopy filled with singing birds Káta had spent one day doing up there in secret, discovering it for the first time, some small measure of it began to seep back into his limbs.

He had no desire to move beyond breathing and blinking, for at present, with the new lightness filling him from top to toe, they were more than sufficient celebration. Warmth seemed to flood him like golden nectar, but as he stared up at the paintings, their verisimilitude to actual birds as near as any rendering he had ever seen, Loki began to discover that he knew little of how things worked now. He did not know his own views on half a thousand things he had changed so much, and the more he thought on it the more he realised he was as a new-born, and quickly set to discovering his views on every matter that crossed his mind.

 

It was as he was discovering that he actually rather liked the idea of love stories and making a resolution to dance more often, that a gentle chorus of singing birds came to his ears. His eyes had been fixed on the painting above him, and he would have started had he had the energy to, sure that they could not be singing. They were not. Káta had taken to sending a little chorus of birds up to sing on Loki’s balcony at noon each day, knowing that if nothing else, he would derive some enjoyment out of their visit, even if he no longer wished to see her again.

Loki, on managing to turn his head towards the balcony, and spotting the colourful little flock, darting and hopping about out there, smiled, the expression somehow coming to him without any effort at all, delighting in the sweetness of their song, and reluctantly turning his head back to rest his aching muscles, his eyes closed as he listened to the chirruping tune.

It was then that Frigg entered with her usual tray of provisions, about to prepare Loki’s midday sustenance. She had at first been surprised by the appearance of the feathered chorus, but had quickly worked out who had sent them, and her heart had been warmed by the sweetness of the gesture. The birds made good company, their songs lifting her spirits when they dropped low, and preventing her concerns from worrying at her. She had spent a good deal of her time in Loki’s rooms setting them to rights once more, for the state they had been in seemed to be a reflection of the chaos of her son’s mind, and it had been no simple task. Her work had resulted in the discovery of numerous little objects that she had never seen before, each of which she set back in their designated positions – for they alone seemed undisturbed amongst all the disarray – and Loki’s study she had stood in, marvelling at all the drawings, and left as it was.

Loki heard his mother’s entrance before he saw her and lay, waiting in patient silence for her approach, but the moment she came into his field of vision, yet to notice that he was awake, he was unable to restrain himself.

“Mother…” his voice was the faintest of whispers, barely a rustle of the wind in pine needles, but Frigg heard it.

She whipped around, water spilling from the bowl in her hands, her eyes widening in overwhelmed happiness and relief as they fell upon Loki and his open eyes, firmly fixed on her, the tips of his fingers raised from the bedclothes in an appeal for her presence.

The bowl fell from her nerveless fingers with a clatter, and she was by his side in less than a moment, taking his hand gently in hers, as she brushed the other across his brow.

“Oh, you’re back, my darling boy, you’re back,” she whispered, her voice choked with emotion, as she took him in her arms, tears of delight in her eyes.

Loki managed a very faint chuckle, desperate to fold his arms around her and hold her close, and frustrated by the weakness of his body. “You won’t be shot of me that easily,” he murmured.

Frigg released him, leaning back with an attempted frown, but too happy to be in any way cross. “Don’t say things like that,” she chided gently, sniffing deeply. “We’ve been so worried about you. What happened?”

Frigg stared into Loki’s eyes, and saw the honest, helpless bewilderment in them. “I don’t know exactly,” he replied softly. “I-” he seemed distracted, the agitation in his expression mounting, and Frigg laid a hand on his, patting it soothingly.

“Don’t worry, don’t worry about that for now,” she said quickly. “There’ll be time enough later for figuring it all out. For now, rest and recuperate.”

Loki blinked in lieu of nodding, and managed a weak smile. “Thank you, mother.”

Frigg’s eyes sparkled with more tears. “You never need to thank me,” she replied in a thick whisper, trying and failing to control the overwhelming surge of love she felt for her son. “Now,” she sniffed, straightening, “let’s get you some food.”

 

In the coming days, Loki kept to his rooms, feeling out his new self, and testing his mind and the changes to the way he thought and felt as his body slowly regained its strength. He was astonished to find that he felt a lot more, and even more so to discover that he actually enjoyed what he experienced. It was as though he had spent most of his life playing on just a few strings of a harp, but now all the rest of the instrument had been opened up to him, affording an infinitesimal combination of emotions and feelings, deep in their richness, that coloured his life with a new wealth of vibrancy. He was desperate to see Káta again, aching to see her, but caution tempered with concern stayed his impulsiveness, unsure yet exactly what the burgeoning feeling in his breast would cause him to do.

Frigg continued to come and see him, and even Thor put in a few appearances once he was able to move about, astonished and delighted to be received by the open arms his little brother, the two hugging each other tighter and tighter until there was not a breath left between them, but plenty of emotion, at which Frigg had left the room with the excuse of having caught something in her eye.

Even once Loki was fit enough to do as he wished in Valhalla, he remained locked in his Halls, shunning all but the most select company. It was not that he feared his reception, or how he himself might behave – all such fears had been dispensed with so completely that it seemed laughable that he had ever entertained them was legitimate concerns, but he had no wish to share in such society as Valhalla provided. He had no wish to stifle his newly liberated soul, and there were only a very select few that he did wish to share his time with.

He had dispensed entirely with the use of handmaidens, his mother at first bemused and then finally placidly acquiescent when she saw that he was to be adamant on the matter. Loki found the change quite a refreshing one, and was more than capable at taking care of himself and his rooms, for although Frigg occasionally reproved him about their general cleanliness or tidiness, his Halls remained, by and large, as neat and tidy as they had ever been.

In this regard Loki had discovered something of a rather amusing pastime, for he would take a seat somewhere in a room, and let his seiðr run around through it, doing the chores and tidying up in ever inventive ways. Occasionally a rug might become rather too mischievous, or a bed sheet a bit belligerent with the pillows, or a broom and mop stroppy with each other, but the books were always very well behaved, marching or soaring primly through the air to their places on the shelves. Even the amusement he found in this was limited however, for the idea had come to him inspired by what he had done with Káta’s rooms, and the thought of her, and the laughter they would have if she were there filled him with a deep homesickness for her.

 

*

 

Fróði, for all Frigg’s embargo on what had happened to Loki, knew of his sudden descent into unconsciousness. He had kept the fact from Káta, knowing that she would have greater peace believing that Loki was awake and well, and desirous of their being apart than if she knew the truth. She deserved some small measure of peace, and as time wore on, he had observed its decline in her.

The news of Loki’s awakening rippled through the gods and goddesses like the rustle of falling leaves. Many were beginning to tire of the God of Mischief’s incessant illnesses and thought little of the news beyond hoping that it would be the last they would hear of his maladies, while others found it a tasty morsel of gossip which they spread with alacrity. Such individuals brought the information to Berghildr’s ears in the coming weeks, and she passed it on to Fróði, the two of them sitting deep in counsel through the night, deciding on what they ought to do about it.

Their concern about the prince had been rising with each new piece of information, and despite their shared unequivocal belief in Káta, and the wild hope that Loki might be better now, they could not help but be anxious. Both felt it was high time that they saw the prince.

It was Berghildr who finally came up with the plan, and the next day Fróði set out for Valhalla, his wife squeezing him in a bone cracking hug with orders to pass it on to Loki while she remained behind to guard the library. The walk up the causeway was long and tiring, for it had been a long time since Fróði had had either inclination or cause to traverse its incline, and he could feel his joints creaking by the time he gained the plateaued top, coming out near Glasislundr where the great gleaming tree Glasir stood, its red gold leaves shimmering in the breeze.

He shuffled his way along the many corridors, a number of those whom he came across recognising him, and nodding and bowing respectfully as they passed, until he finally came to Loki’s shut doors.

The rumour of the naming of Loki’s Halls’ had long since reached him, but Fróði couldn’t help but pause, craning his neck back to look up at the deeply carved lettering, pride welling in his heart. The feeling warming him from the inside out, he leant forwards and banged on the door, waiting patiently for a response.

“Go away!” Loki’s firm voice eventually came to him, muffled by the thick wood, and a little cross. Fróði paused, cocking his head on one side. The prince’s voice was different to usual. Lighter, less tetchy.

“It’s Fróði, Loki.” Fróði waited a moment, feeling the silence and interpreting what it meant correctly. “You haven’t been to see me for a while.” He kept his voice light and conversational, as though he had just come on a social call. “Berghildr and I were beginning to worry about you.”

There was a second tense silence.

“Hildr’s found a few more books that she thinks you might enjoy… I’ve brought them with me.” He had, too. They’d been a severe burden during the walk up, but Berghildr had had a hunch, and her hunches were rarely wrong. Fróði listened intently for a few moments, and dared to think that the silence was a little different to those which had preceded it, the emotion that charged it quite different. “I’ll leave them out here for you,” he called cheerfully, setting the parcel down with a thump. “Do take a look.”

Fróði turned and began to make his slow way back along the corridor.

Before he had made a dozen paces, however, he heard the opening of the door, and a soft footfall that was not his own echo in the corridor.

“Fróði…”

Fróði turned, his eyes alighting on the guilt ridden expression of the prince. “Oh, my boy!” he moved forwards with sudden speed, light in his eyes, clutching Loki to him in a warm hug.

They stood together for a few long moments, Fróði relieved to see Loki again after so long, and Loki feeling waves of relieving affection roll over him, unaware until that moment just how much he had missed Fróði’s company and counsel. “I’m sorry, Afi,” he murmured, holding onto the old god tightly, his arms locked as though he would never let go.

“It’s nothing, Loki, my dear boy, it’s absolutely nothing at all.” They finally released one another and Fróði leant back, his hands still clasping Loki’s arms, running his eyes over the prince, surreptitiously assessing his mental state and more astounded than relieved at what he saw. “It is the mandate of the old to worry over the young, don’t you know?”

Loki’s eyes twinkled wanly, “I thought you always said you were young?” he asked with a half-smile, part of him thinking how the three of them would laugh if Káta were there.

Fróði’s eyes glimmered with a shade of amusement that Loki did not quite understand, a kind of knowing in them as though he had said something of significance. “Why don’t we go in, and have a nice long talk, eh? Catch up on everything. There’s been quite a bit of water under the old bridge since we last spoke.”

Loki nodded, smiling and bending to retrieve the parcel from the floor, and hefting it into his arms.

“I need hardly say, Hildr will have your hide if those books come back damaged,” Fróði added, laughing as he shuffled in through the doors, his comment turning Loki’s smile into a genuine grin.

“Message received and understood,” he laughed.

 

The conversation with Fróði did little to satisfy Loki’s desire for news of Káta, which had been becoming increasingly rapacious of late. He had been happy to discover upon waking that she was neither unhappy nor distressed, but in a mild state of feeling, and the depth of sensation that he received from the bracelet had more than tripled by whatever battle it was that he had undergone during his sojourn. As the days passed however, it gave him cause for mild concern that he was yet to share in any outrageous happiness with her, although he was glad that she was never acutely sad, despite the attentiveness with which he monitored her moods. She was only ever placid, and it disturbed him to think of Káta without any of her usual extremes of expression and feeling.

Fróði had fed the prince’s craving with tiny titbits of information dropped here and there without warning throughout their conversation, although he was always careful never to sate Loki’s appetite for news of Káta, knowing that if played correctly, Loki could be induced to see her much sooner than he would have left to his own devices. It had been clear that Loki was desperate to push him for more, but for all the changes he had undergone, he was still his essential self, and his natural reticence about private matters prevented him from pursuing such a line of enquiry. Fróði had therefore carefully stoked the fire, prodding here and there in the places that would have the greatest effect, and left well pleased with the results.

It came about therefore that two weeks after he had awoken, Loki finally mustered his courage, and disappeared from his rooms.

 

He reappeared in Káta’s, invisible, and holding his breath, hardly daring to make the faintest sound that might betray his presence to her.

Káta was humming obliviously to herself some little tune or other that he was unfamiliar with. The sight of her warmed him from the inside, and Loki felt a tingle of that same feeling of satiated relief that he had felt when he had seen the light coming to him out of the darkness of his mind.

She was bent over her desk, industriously applied to some work, and curiosity overriding his faculties of preservation, Loki slowly moved closer, interested to see what it was that so engrossed her attention. What he saw on the table beneath her hand were sheets of blank music bars.

A couple of pages lay to one side beneath a paper weight, finished and dry, with the occasional crossings out here and there, filled with neatly inked black notes. Káta was working on a third sheet, not quite halfway through, and would pause every now and then to hum the next few bars, waving her quill dreamily as she did so, conducting and feeling the rhythm of it, before dipping the nib in her ink pot and setting out the next set of notes.

Loki, captivated by the task and Káta’s absorption in it, moved to his accustomed seat on her windowsill, and watched, his previous concerns dispelled in a scintillating wave of deliciously sweet familiarity.

 

Káta had been unable to entirely quash her concerns about Loki’s absence, which had run into well over a month, and there was little that Fróði could say that could prevent her from missing his presence daily.

It had been as she was watching the little chorus she sent to him cavort about in the treetops beyond her windows, wittering and chirruping away, that the idea had come to her. She would write Loki a song. She had no idea when she might give it to him, if at all, or how, but the notion lodged in her mind, and refused to be shaken off.

She scratched her head, closing her eyes and trying to get the melody and harmony she was thinking of straight in her mind, and unwittingly drew a long splattered line of ink across her brow. Frustrated by the wiliness of the notes, she dropped the quill back in the pot, and crossed to her harp, tenderly lifting the cover, and bringing it into her lap to play out the troublesome tune.

As she played, the tangle slowly unfolded itself into the exact harmony she had been seeking. A heartfelt sigh seemed to come in from the open window, and she glanced towards it, pausing a moment, before she dismissed it as the wind, setting the harp carefully down and rushing to her table to quickly set out the arrangement.

Finishing the bar, she sat back in her seat, smiling with quiet satisfaction.

With inky fingers, she blotted the notes, blowing on the ink to make doubly sure that it was dry before she dabbed at it with an experimental finger to check, and shuffling the page in with its preceding fellows.

 

Loki had returned to his place over her shoulder, curious to know what the title of the piece was, if it had any. It resonated with something within him, something that had long been repressed but had now come out, tentatively unfurling to reveal the beauty it had been sheltering within.

He gazed down over Káta’s shoulder, read the title, and for a moment he was not quite sure what his heart was doing.

_Loki_

A feeling of terrified exhilaration possessed him, identical to that which overtook him when he leapt from the balcony of his rooms, freefalling down the length of the Tor of Valhalla as far as he dared, before finally transforming into a bird at the very last moment, opening his wings with a snap, and soaring back up. Except that drop, that freefall, that glorious swoop up, revelling in the power of his own body, that was all contained and compressed down into his chest, into just his heart. It was his heart that was saturated with the feeling, the breathless exhilaration and sheer light-headedness, and condensed as it was he felt himself utterly overrun with the sensation, all his thought centred on that sole part of his chest that was threatening to burst with the glorious excess of emotion.

The music was for him. _For him_.

He wanted to laugh aloud with his delight, to cry with the overwhelming sense of astonished gratitude that was filling him, to sweep Káta up into his arms and spin her in circles until the only clear thing in the entire world was her face gazing into his. That he wanted above all things. And he was in no way ashamed that it was so.

He did not know what it was that she made him feel, not in all the days of his deliberations had he been able to divine what that blessed sensation was, but he was excited and so much more than willing to find out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it's been a little while since the last chapter update, but here we are - I'm back, and the chapter's up! :D  
> ADKFJAS;DLF LOKI'S GETTING BETTER!!!! :3 But he's still got a loong old journey to go.   
> And poor Káta - she's completely in the dark: you'll see what that does in the next chapter.
> 
> Um, don't have too much else to say, only that while it may seem like Loki's rollercoaster is just starting to wind down, the truth is the opposite, and there's a plunge coming up very soon. ;)
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it! :D
> 
> Please give Kudos and/or comment :) Tell me what you like or don’t like :) Questions and speculations are always welcome :D As is incomprehensible flailing if that's what you go in for :)  
> Also, if you like this story, or any of my other ones, and you want access to sneak previews on chapters that I'm working on, you can Like my Facebook page, and Follow my Twitter or Tumblr :)  
> https://www.facebook.com/josephinetomkinsauthor  
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	40. Eavesdroppers Do No Good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Missing Loki and in the dark of how he is, Káta finally admits her feelings - but a person with unsavoury plans hear words meant for other's ears.

Loki disappeared, returning to his chambers in order to collect himself in their solitude, and to examine the rush of feeling that Káta had roused within him, which he only now realised she had been inspiring in him for so long.

Káta meanwhile remained unaware of her visitor. Despite this, and the delight that the composition was providing her however, she could not deny the faint flicker of discontented melancholy that had begun to creep into her heart. It was a feeling that made her sighs heavier and the days seem longer with every added hour of separation from Loki, and it was a feeling that had been growing despite her best attempts to subdue it.

 

As the days progressed, Káta found it harder and harder to contain herself. Her composure was slipping, she knew, and she slowly came to the realisation that she would not be able to simply wile away her time, thinking and hoping that Loki was all right, and that she would be able to be all right herself believing that he was fine. She wanted more than that. Worlds and whole universes more. But it seemed that now she was finally admitting the fact to herself it was too late.

Rúna came up to Káta’s room one morning when she had failed to make an appearance at the morning meal, bringing with her a little napkin into which she had folded a select few of Káta’s favourite nibbles. She found her friend sitting on her bed with the harp in her lap, tears leaking silently down her cheeks. Every now and then Káta would heave a great sniff, and wipe the tears away before they touched the strings or wood, but beyond that she gave no indication of caring about the state she was in.

Rúna dropped the food in surprise and rushed to Káta’s side, taking her friend gently by the shoulders.

“Káta! Are you all right? Have you been hurt? What’s wrong?”

Káta sucked in a shuddering breath, and shook her head heavily, a couple of tears falling from the end of her nose. “No...no, I’m fine,” she replied, although her overwrought tone spoke otherwise. “I’ve just been such a damn fool.” Her head hung, and sobs began to take hold of her in earnest, a few tears falling onto the soundboard of the harp with resonating musical splats.

Rúna gently removed the harp from Káta’s arms, placing it carefully out of the way on the floor, and freed of it, Káta’s hands went to her face as she gave herself over to her sorrow with a wretched howl of unhappiness.

She toppled over onto her side, curling in on herself and pulling her pillows into her arms, pressing her face into them, the sounds of her misery somewhat muffled by their cushioning, but still audible.

“Káta, Káta, please, tell me what’s wrong. Let me help you,” Rúna entreated, stroking her friend’s back gently and trying to help alleviate some of her woe.

Káta continued to sob, but after a little her weeping began to slow and quieten as she tried to control her unhappiness. At long last she pulled her wet face from the damp pillow, her eyes puffy with tears. “I love him, Rúna,” she hiccupped, her red eyes plain with honesty, “I love him, and it’s probably – _oh_!” she let out a miserable wail of frustration, and dove back into the pillows as her grief shuddered out through her body once more.

Rúna waited patiently, rubbing her shoulders consolingly. She knew now what Káta was talking about, and although she had thought no good would come of the unspoken feelings between her friend and the god, she had never thought that it would ever come to this. Dalliances and flirtation were a common source of excitement and jealousy in Mærsalr, but love was never a cause for concern. True heartache was a rare occurrence amongst the nymphs.

At long last Káta seemed to have regained control over herself and her emotions, for she resurfaced from the pillows, and this time her expression was a good deal calmer, despite her outward wild semblance. Her face was sticky with tears from her puffy eyes, her hair dishevelled, flyaway locks stuck to her skin. “I love him, Rúna.” She murmured simply, the words easing out of her in the most natural manner possible, doing what they had being trying to do for so many months now, and thrilling her heart more each time she said them, even as they pained her. “I love him, and it’s too late. It’s too late for him to know…and he hates himself so much.” Káta’s breath shook with a half-controlled sob, her heart aching for Loki’s pain. “And I can’t do anything to help him. I’m helpless. I-” she pressed her hands to her mouth, struggling to keep the hard fought for control over her emotions even as tears threatened to overwhelm her once more, her breath coming out in uneven bursts.

Rúna made soothing noises, comforting her friend as best she could.

“I can’t even tell him, Rúna,” Káta whispered. “He doesn’t even know…and if I can’t help him then he’ll never know. And I can’t help him, not any more. I’ve done _everything_ I can do. There is no more I can say, even if I _could_ see him! So it’s just this vicious cycle that I simply _cannot_ break out of – no matter which way I turn, which way I look, there’s nothing I can do to stop it.” And then suddenly all of the emotion she had been bottling up since she had last seen Loki came flooding out. “And it wasn’t until I lost him, it wasn’t until I knew that I couldn’t do anything more to help him, that I actually realised it!” she sobbed, bending over and pressing her face into her skirts to catch her tears. “That I even allowed myself to realise it, because I knew, I _knew_ that I wouldn’t get the opportunity to say it to him, not without destroying him, and I would rather die than do that to him, but now it’s destroying me not saying it. Not telling him. Oh, Rúna!”

Káta leant forwards, and sobbed into Rúna’s shoulder, allowing her friend to rock her like a child as her grief shook her.

 

Outside the door, which stood slightly ajar, Spana crept away, her cold grey eyes glittering with the beginnings of a plan.

Pacing the corridors of Mærsalr, Spana rounded out her plot. She had no wish to include her sisters in the scheme, for Róta would only give the game away, and Lúta did not possess the same level of investment that she did. She had not forgotten the incident with the panther – she was reminded of it with every snub that she received from the gods who saw her scars, and with every slight her anger had grown. Spana did not leave grievances unavenged; she had never yet buried the hatchet without dealing a blow back to her enemy, and now, at long last, her patience had been rewarded. For her revenge was sweetest when cold – a brutal sting in the dark that came without warning and deadly enough to prevent any further reprisals.

She swiftly went to her rooms and changed into her plainest gown, wrapping her shoulders and distinctive bright hair in the plain grey shawl that she had worn when procuring the drafts and drugs for her previous scheme. This time, however, she would succeed, and Káta would know what it was to lose what she valued.

Spana had long guessed that there might be the beginnings of some sort of an attachment between Loki and Káta, but it had been of too little consequence for her to give serious consideration, and what was more the notion of love had never crossed her mind. Now, however, she had found Káta’s weak spot – the one place that she was most vulnerable, the only place she was completely unprotected. Love was a liability that she could exploit, and now that she had solid evidence of it, on Káta’s side at least – and she had little doubt of Loki’s own partiality towards the girl – it was time to act.

She made her way through the city until she reached the seediest and most dangerous quarter. Asgard might be the city of the Æsir, but that did not prevent it from harbouring its fair share of necessary evils, and all cities had a cesspit that was the lair of degraded souls. It was a place she had never been to before, but she had heard things about it – disgusting, horrific things that had turned her stomach, but she needed the very specific services provided by those housed within it, and she was not about to let her own fear or revulsion get in the way of her plan – opportunities like this did not come along often.

The quadrant of the city that she was in was one of the southern ones which lay between The Sea Gate and the Álfheimr Gate, near the Sea of Marmora, and was always filled with the traffic of other world races, the alarming majority of whom possessed fewer scruples than the average thief. It was this particular characteristic that Spana was relying upon however, and with no small amount of disgust she eventually managed to procure a band of mercenaries for her purposes.

The men were of all shapes and descriptions, big, small, and everything in-between, most of them half-breeds or the dregs of their race. The three things they all shared in common were their ugliness, brutality, and a lust for gold. Spana did her best not to regard them with open disgust, for even she knew that it was a poor idea to offend those whom you wished to hire, especially when they knew their way around weapons of every description, and she rushed through the transaction as quickly as possible.

“I want you to…um…take care of something for me.”

“What, a pet?” asked a great hulking brute of a man with a snort of laughter, giving her a skin crawling leer. The others all guffawed.

“ _No!_ ” Spana replied crossly, trying not to retreat from the group; these were a people who operated on an entirely different type of viciousness to her own, and she did not like it; theirs was the blunt kind of cruelty that did not differentiate between individuals and took the form of a sharp knife in the back. “There’s a girl that I want you to…you know…damage her.”

“Ahh,” another man, this one skinny, with an ingratiating smile as oily as his hair, nodded understandingly. “And do you care about how we do this?”

“No,” replied Spana coldly, regaining her usual hauteur. “I don’t care what you do, so long as you do it. I have an insult to avenge.” She put out her arm, and pulled back the sleeve, showing them her scars. They seemed to impress the men, for a little of their derision faded, and there were less wandering eyes. Spana restrained a smile of triumph. “When you have done it I want you to go to other worlds for a while, and you will never say that I hired you.”

“We weren’t born yesterday, you know,” said one man gruffly. “Question is, who’s this girl, where’ll we find her, when d’you want it done, and how much are you willing to pay?”

“She’s masquerading as a nymph in Mærsalr – the nymphs hall, over near the Gate of Ida. She has dark brown hair and golden eyes; there is no one else you could possibly mistake her for. I want you to do it out of the city, and I want no witnesses. She goes out into the forests around the Asgard Mountains near the Plain of Ida regularly – alone. I don’t care when you do it, so long as it is soon, and you don’t need to tell me when you’ve done it – I’ll know.”

“And the money?” asked the oily man.

Spana threw a bag down on the ground between them. It clanked and rattled, and when it was opened by the men was discovered to be heavy with gold. Their eyes widened; it was more than a king’s ransom. “You will not contact me again after this. I am paying you now, and trusting you to execute this properly,” Spana said severely, and there was a hardness in her eyes that made even the men arrayed before her quail a little. “If you don’t, you will have gods to answer to, and they will believe every word that I say over any you can think of.”

A serious silence stole over the group. It was clear to all of them from one glance at her that Spana meant every word, and that she was not to be trifled with, whatever she might look like. Women might be inferior in physical strength, but the mercenaries dealt in a currency of violence, and they could recognise a genuine threat when they saw one. They all glanced at each other, muttering a little as they came to a consensus. The oily man turned to her, apparently their spokesman, and nodded. “We accept your terms; look out for their fulfilment. We will not disappoint.”

 

*

 

At great length, Loki finally considered himself ready to return to Káta. He had gradually increased the amount of time he spent invisible in her company, until at long last he was sure that there was nothing that he need be concerned about.

His patience had been severely tried by the process, but he had been prevented from fretting over it by the delightful distraction provided by his heart at the thought and sight of Káta. She did to him what no other had done before, sending his newly liberated heart spinning in cartwheeling backflips through his chest with such alacrity that he could hardly believe what he felt to be true. It was as though he was levitating from the inside. What was more, the elated wildness that possessed his heart when he saw her never diminished, if anything it grew stronger, but it was a feeling he now knew he could never live without.

After another week of careful introduction, however, in which Káta managed to complete her composition, Loki returned.

 

Káta was sitting on her windowsill in the exact place she had watched Loki sit countless times. Her legs dangled down above the nine floors of empty space, and her skirt was hitched up to her knees. The day was wonderfully sunny, with the perfect amount of shifting cloud cover so that she was constantly flickering between full sunlight and cooling shade.

After her outburst to Rúna she had felt a good deal better, and had gradually regained her former hale spirits, although she could not prevent the occasional bouts of melancholy, which, mercifully, were diluted in strength compared to that which she had experienced before. Rúna now spent more time with her, aware that her friend needed cheering up and more than happy to raise her spirits, and Káta was profoundly grateful to her friend. She enjoyed solitude, but loneliness was a hard wearing emotion that only company could stave off.

She was humming the refrain from her song for Loki, her legs swinging idly, when she heard a faint swish in the room behind her. She had heard the sound so many times, and she seemed to have heard it even more often since Loki’s absence. Knowing that she was imagining it again, and sure that on a day as breezy as this it would be the drapes from her other window, Káta ignored it as she had eventually taught herself to do.

“You’re sitting in my spot.”

Káta’s eyes widened, and she jumped, turning around with such speed that she nearly toppled off her perch. She felt a brush of something incorporeal behind her, a gentle guidance that steadied her, and knew that it was seiðr. Her skin tingled.

Loki stood before her, smiling and apologetic, more himself than she had ever seen him before. Káta feasted her eyes upon him.

“You’re back!” she exclaimed breathlessly.

Loki smile broadened as he strode towards her. “And I will never stay away again. Care to dance?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I wasn't actually going to upload this for a while yet because I'm currently on epic holiday (my third so far this year - it's excessive, I know, but absolutely delicious), but I'm a bit bored, and felt like being a generous evil overlord (having finished five chapters yesterday), so I'm reducing the time you have to wait in anticipation XP Aren't I kind.
> 
> This one was a bit short, but OMG YOU FINALLY GET TO HEAR KATA ACKNOWLEDGE THAT SHE'S IN LOVE, AND I HOPE YOU'RE REALLY EXCITED BECAUSE I HAVE BEEN SITTING ON THIS FOR LITERALLY FOREVER AND IT'S BEEN SO HARD WAITING THIS LONG TO WRITE ALL THE CHAPTERS IN THE LEAD UP TO IT. *takes in a deep breath*  
> So. Yay for awesome friends like Rúna, but DUN DUN DUNNNN! What do you think about Spana's evil plot of vengeance?! *cackles* Just when you thought things might be all right. XP  
> Also, just to be clear on that point - Spana only wants Káta to be disfigured, not murdered. Her transaction with the mercenaries is ambiguously worded however - just the way I want it, so prepare yourselves for some nail biting chapters in a little while. XDDD (I'm not terribly subtle here, am I?)  
> And, ALKDJFLDJFASLKFJL;DSKJ!!!!! LOKI'SBACKLOKI'SBACKLOKI'SBACKLOKI'SBACK!!!!!!  
> Prepare yourselves for some amusement and al;djfalsdjfasdlk and :3 and squee and OMGFREAKINGOUT in the next several chapters.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it! :D
> 
> Also, if you like this story, or any of my other ones, and you want access to sneak previews on chapters that I'm working on, Like my Facebook page, or Follow my Twitter :)  
> https://www.facebook.com/josephinetomkinsauthor  
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	41. The Elder Brother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki and Káta try to find the lie of the land between them, and Thor embarks on a brotherly mission of rescue.

Thor had been deeply moved by Loki’s sudden resurgence of affection after his awakening. At first he had thought it might have been a side effect of his illness, but as the days had passed Loki’s good humour had remained, and he had always greeted Thor with a smile whenever he had thought to visit.

The result was that Thor had become more and more of a regular visitor to Loki’s rooms, and with brotherly thoughts in mind he now wended his way thither. It had been a few days since he had last seen Loki, and he had decided that given his brother’s recent good will, it was now time to renew his offer of help regarding women.

Loki’s newly affectionate nature had increased Thor’s desire to help his little brother with his concerns and woes, and with such thoughts swelling his breast with a mixture of manly and brotherly pride, he entered Loki’s rooms, calling out to his brother. No answering call returned to him, but it was not an uncommon occurrence, as he was used to coming across his brother immersed in a book, all but dead to the world.

By the time Thor had made a thorough circuit of all Loki’s private chambers, and even gone down to check his bathing rooms below, puzzlement had replaced his former joviality. Loki had frequently spoken firmly against leaving his rooms whenever he had tried to cajole him on previous visits, and it was confounding to find him suddenly absent.

Realisation dawned on Thor, and he smiled, letting out a great bellow of laughter.

“All right; you’ve got me, brother!” he called, opening his arms and turning on the spot, his eyes running over all he saw in an attempt to spot his camouflaged sibling. “I know you’re here somewhere,” he laughed, remembering the number of times Loki had tricked him with his invisibility; this at last would be the time he caught his wily little brother out.

As the echo of his voice died away, however, Thor was replied with only silence. He frowned.

“Loki? Loki, come now, don’t be a grump because I ruined your ruse.”

Still silence returned to him.

“Loki, come on, come out.”

Thor frowned and spun on the spot. If Loki had been lying in wait to spring a surprise on him it would have happened by now, but nothing. He crossed to Loki’s study, peering behind the curtain to make doubly sure that he had not missed his brother in there, and his eyes fell upon the many drawings and portraits of Káta.

If his suspicions were correct, this girl and his brother’s obsession with her were the reasons for Loki’s previous absences and why he had neglected his duties. Concern rose in Thor, uncomfortable as always. If Loki abandoned his duties again their father would be more than furious. His skin crept at the thought.

Mindful of the treatment that Loki would receive from their father if his suspicions were correct, and curious about this female who seemed to be so enchanting as to be able to cause such havoc in his previously unassailable brother, Thor strode from Loki’s Halls with a single purpose in mind: Kvasir.

 

Thor, despite not being as sharp as his younger brother, was far from stupid. He knew Kvasir and his tendencies well, and he also knew that the god and his brother were sometime friends. If there was a girl after Loki, a girl who, maybe, wished to get him in trouble with their father – who might even be being put up to the mischief by some enemy or other of Loki’s – then Kvasir was likely to know who she was. Thor did not believe that Loki would have confided such details in the God of Inspiration, but he needed a starting point, and Kvasir would do admirably.

 

Thor eventually came across the god in his chambers. A din arose from a small group of musicians in one corner, armed with a lyre, a hide drum, and small bronze cymbals, to which dancing girls clad in sheer silks and glittering jewels cavorted before the recumbent Kvasir as handmaidens with batting eyelashes and simpering smiles poured wine into his goblet, and handfed him grapes from the vine.

“Kvasir!” Thor’s tone rumbled ominously through the room, and the musicians stopped with an inharmonious clatter and a _pling_ as the lyre player broke a string.

The dancing girls halted, dipping their heads, but eyeing Thor lasciviously as he strode past, ignoring their glances for once, and stopped before the now upright Kvasir. “My dear Prince!” cried Kvasir, bowing lowly. “How might I be of service?”

Thor gave Kvasir a pointed look, and the god waved an irritable hand at the gawping servants, who departed with reluctance.

“Please, sit,” he invited courteously, gesturing to a chair.

Thor eyed it doubtfully for suspicious fluids, and seeing it was dry, sat. “I want to ask you a question about my brother.”

“Which one?” replied Kvasir unctuously.

Thor raised a thick eyebrow. “Loki.”

“Ah, yes,” cooed Kvasir. “What would you like to know?”

“He has become infatuated with a girl,” Thor said bluntly; he had never had much use for subtlety. “I want to know where to find her.”

Kvasir gave him a knowing expression. “I don’t think Prince Loki is one to share his _trinkets_ …” he said leadingly.

Thor frowned. “I have no use for her as you might, Kvasir. I want to talk to her.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Kvasir said comprehendingly. “Well in that regard you two are more similar than he thinks – that’s all he ever does with her. Talk, laugh, play tricks on the other nymphs.”

“Nymphs?”

“Yes, she lives in Mærsalr,” replied Kvasir carelessly, reaching over to the low side table that the handmaidens had placed the platter of grapes on, and pulling a few off to pop into his mouth. “Grape? ” he proffered the platter to Thor, who frowned. Kvasir shrugged and talked as he ate. “I’ll take you down myself if you like. Between you and I I don’t think she is a nymph – she’s got a lot of secrets that one, but I’ve never yet been able to pick her brains over them. She’s as cunning as your brother, some would say.”

Thor’s eyes narrowed slightly, not sure whether Kvasir was tricking him or not. “If you are wrong, it will hurt, Kvasir,” he said, erring on the side of caution.

Kvasir put up hands. “I am as honest as the day is long, my Prince. Come, I’ll take you now.”

 

*

 

Since being reunited, Loki and Káta had returned to spending time together. At first they had been a little shy with each other. Many things had changed since they had last met, and it felt almost like reacquainting oneself with a place visited long ago that had since changed. On both sides there was eagerness as well as tentativeness, and Káta’s gift of the song was given and received not without some measure of awkwardness.

For Káta, having at last acknowledged the true state of her feelings for Loki, it was hard to repress the heart-fluttering thrill that ran through her each time she saw him, harder still not to let the emotion seep out into her smiles so that they were no longer merely a sign of welcome, but a communication of the secret wish of her heart. But loving Loki in silence, with him by her side as they walked and talked together, was sufficient for the moment given the contrast it made with the previous deprivation of news or sight of him that she had endured. Her patience was extensive, and there were times when it felt as though all her previous difficulties and ordeals with Loki had been training for what she now had to undergo. Even then it was hard not to speak, not to let all her concern for him flood out in a torrent of questions, to ensure that he was indeed all right, and as a result she more often than not had to bite her tongue.

It was not until a day when they were silently walking side by side through the gardens, further apart than they had become used to walking, when a gardener emptying one of the ponds had tossed a bucket of water over his shoulder, unknowingly drenching Loki, that they finally broke through their self-consciousness. Loki had frozen, staring, bedraggled and shocked through the strings of his dripping hair at Káta, whose hands were covering her mouth as she stared at him in wide eyed surprise. Her expression of astonishment had slowly changed, however, until her hands could no longer hide the grin that had slowly replaced her open mouth, her giggles joining his laughter.

Loki, now much inured to being soaked, had shaken off a little of the water with an expression of dryly amused chagrin. “Well…at least it wasn’t you for once.”

Káta had regarded him impishly. “I can fix that for you if you like.”

A brief chase that culminated in Loki catching Káta, both overbalancing in the ensuing struggle and falling into a lake, and by the time they had waded out, soaked to the skin and trying to restrain their laughter, they found that things were much as they once were. After that they had fallen easily back into their old habits.

For all this, however, the weight of unspoken matters remained heavy between them; an anchor on their conversations, and a reticence in their meetings. Loki did not share his ordeal with Káta, and Káta did not speak of the feelings residing within her heart, despite their closeness and all the things they had shared with one another in the past. They were private concerns; too fresh yet to be spoken of. Loki had not even broached the topic of his unconsciousness with his mother, despite her continued visits to him, and she had silently accepted his lead. All things required the right moment in which to be shared, and such matters needed it more than most.

In all other matters, however, they attempted to behave as though nothing had passed, although neither could help but notice changes in the other. Káta watched Loki constantly, her eyes drawn to him, for he seemed freer, the sweetness of his disposition loosened along with his playful light heartedness, and Loki became aware of a faint undercurrent of bittersweet emotion that belied Káta’s merry exterior. And yet neither spoke.

For all his new lightness, however, Káta could not help but notice that Loki was quieter than he had been, no longer rambunctious in his mischief, but quietly happy, and always seemed to carefully consider his replies before he made them. Indeed, he seemed to spend even more of his time sunk in thought than he had before, but now, instead of heavy brooding, he seemed to be engaged in an earnest bemusement, as though he was at work solving a puzzle that he did not yet fully understand, bit which he had the patience to wait for comprehension of.

For Loki it was enough to be in Káta’s company again, despite the attendant turbulence it caused his emotional state. He had not rebuilt himself in his time away – nothing so dramatic as that had occurred – but he had cast off the shadow, and now was left to understand that which it had smothered and repressed for so long, and growing in new directions as he did so. As things were, he was only a little better off than if he _had_ rebuilt himself anew as regards familiarity with his new self. He had memories of when he had felt things so strongly and with so little bitterness from his childhood which were now resurfacing, and little by little he was gradually scoping that old self out, rediscovering old habits and gently falling into new ones. It was not as confusing as it might have been, but it was difficult enough as it was. Without Káta’s patient smile to rely on he would have made little headway. She did not understand why he was so pensive, but her understanding of his need to solve the puzzle was enough.

 

After being confined to the city for so long – Káta having stayed within Asgard for the duration – both were yearning for the freedom of the plains and mountains, and it did not take long before they went racing out of the city once more to explore the wilds of the grasslands and mountain slopes.

The very first time words had not needed to pass between them, and when they wound up in the glade, Loki summoned Káta’s harp in a corner and set the strings playing his song, while they danced in the dappled shadows as though in a dream, a dance that neither had ever learnt or seen before, but a dance that they both knew the steps to, a dance that their hearts had been singing to for a long time. In the enchantment of the glade, all other concerns, all past and present worries fell away so that there was only that charmed moment, seemingly stretching for a delicious eternity, until the sun laid itself to rest, and the moon rose to gild them with her silver light, and a veil of fireflies cloaked them with a golden haze of illumination, drifting over the still pool and about their forms and through the swaying leaves of the trees and grass as time passed and faded out of memory.

Not all their time together was so blessed, however, for even such moments could not erase the fact that things had passed that were hard to keep silent and harder to speak of. Their meetings were at times shy and cautious, as though they were two strangers, meeting and learning about each other for the first time, for such things had passed that neither could revert to what they had once been, even as they longed for a return to their former ease and familiarity, and pretended that it was so.

Riding out of the city always lifted their spirits, however, even if it did not make it any easier to broach the topics that lay between them, and regardless of what needed to be spoken of, they could always revel in the freedom of the plains and mountains. They were out on one such of these expeditions when Thor and Kvasir came down to Mærsalr in search of them, blissfully unaware of what awaited them at the nymph’s hall when they at last decided to turn around.

 

*

 

“Who is it that Kvasir has with him?”

Spana glanced up from her perfectly filed nails, which she had been scrutinising, bored. No gods had come down to the hall that day, and Kvasir would be a welcome distraction. Hoping that he was not bringing Prince Loki down again, she got up from the low daybed she had been lying on, and moved to stand beside Unna by a pillar of the pavilion. It had been Unna who had spoken, and as her twin sister came to squint at the tall burly figure striding along the path beside Kvasir, Spana felt a jolt clench her stomach.

She had never seen the Prince in the flesh before, but she had seen busts sculpted of him, whole statues, and finely wrought carvings and paintings – even at this distance, she could recognise the God of Thunder.

 

Kvasir chuckled as the faces peering at them around the pillars suddenly disappeared, a flurry of hurried movement happening behind the swaying gauze drapes of the pavilion.

“I believe you will enjoy yourself at Mærsalr, Prince Thor,” he commented satisfactorily.

Thor frowned. “I did not come here to enjoy myself, Kvasir; I came to find this girl that has bewitched my brother.”

“Of course you have,” Kvasir replied smoothly with a mollifying smile, “but she is often out, and there is little sense in being bored while you wait. I assure you, the nymphs will not disappoint.”

Thor regarded Kvasir sternly for a moment, and then harrumphed. “We shall see.”

 

By the time Kvasir and Thor passed through the swaying drapes, Spana and the other nymphs were ready. Their hair and dresses were immaculate, and each was displaying their finest points to best advantage. It went without saying that the rest would give way to Spana, and as a result it was she who swept forwards at the head of her companions in order to greet the two gods with a deep curtsey.

“Kvasir, Prince Thor; it is an unexpected honour that you bestow upon us this day.”

Kvasir glanced at Thor from the corner of his eye, and was pleased to see the interest with which the prince looked Spana up and down. It would not do to displease one with power such as his. “My Prince, may I introduce Spana of the Nipt Þrír? It is unfortunate that her sisters are not here to greet you, but I assure you that Spana is quite the brightest gem of the three.”

The other nymphs had followed Spana’s lead, all bobbing their heads and curtseying as she had. Svana and Unna glided over to Kvasir, attaching themselves on either side of him and leading him to a divan piled with cushions. Spana had taken a seat on the divan nearest Thor, and was glancing coquettishly up at him through her lashes, an inviting but girlish smile lifting the corners of her mouth.

Thor regarded her for a moment, his desire to take this girl of Loki’s to task, and his desire to obey the immodest invitation in Spana’s sparkling grey eyes fighting one another. A moment more, and he gave in to the latter, resolving to ask about the former – after all, Kvasir was right; there was little point in not enjoying himself while he waited, and these nymphs might know something of their kinswoman’s intentions.

He sat by Spana, and one of the other nymphs who had dropped back behind the daybed instantly came forwards, her hands resting on his shoulders and snaking over his muscles, beginning to knead and massage them, while another poured him a goblet of mead, passing it to Spana to give him with a coy smile.

Thor, relaxed and transported by the sensations of the massage quite forgot what his purpose in being at Mærsalr was for a few moments, his concentration further hindered by the fact that some of the other nymphs had struck up a gentle tune on a set of wood flutes and whistles. After a few minutes of enjoyment, however, in which Spana plied him with mead, making jokes and laughing prettily at his comments, Thor recalled himself and gave Kvasir a pointed glance.

“Where is Káta today?” Kvasir asked smoothly, engaging in the plan they had settled on their way down – it had largely been of Kvasir’s concoction. It would seem more innocuous if the question came from him.

Svana and Unna did not seem to be particularly disturbed by the question, perfectly secure of their position in Kvasir’s affections as they cuddled against him, Svana twirling a curl of his beard around her finger. They glanced towards Spana in deference, a shade of apprehension in their eyes.

Spana, when she might once have pouted or taken offence at the question, simply smiled sweetly, memory of her plan of vengeance sweetening the moment immeasurably for her. It would not be long before it came to fruition, and then no god would ask after Káta; not Kvasir, not Ullr, and never again Prince Loki – not that he and his strange affections mattered anymore. “I believe she has gone out riding with Prince Loki, Kvasir,” she replied amiably.

Both gods frowned; Kvasir imperceptibly, and Thor in what he thought was an unnoticeable manner, but for quite different reasons.

Kvasir knew how to play the nymphs off one another, although he had always been careful never to rile Spana and her sisters up too much; he might turn a blind eye to their more disagreeable tendencies, but he was far from unaware of them. It had been something he had sometimes thought to caution Loki about once the prince had started showing marked interest in Káta, but wary of Loki’s mercurial and private nature, he had withheld his advice. It was better to remain in the Prince’s good graces and to be able to keep a silent eye out, than to risk his displeasure and remain unaware of what happened – especially given the Queen’s interest in the proceedings. He had watched Spana’s growing jealousy with unease, however, and her sudden sweetness was disturbing. Of course, it might merely be that she now had a bigger fish to fry in Thor, and that her satisfaction had overridden whatever resentment she had previously held towards Káta, but Kvasir was not fool enough to think that Spana would ever let a matter like that go so easily without reparation, for he had seen the results of her jealousy and injured pride before, and they were never pretty.

Thor, however, had much simpler concerns. Loki was with the girl again, and if he knew anything, he knew that that would spell trouble; trouble that his brother, mischief-maker in chief as he was, could ill afford where their father was concerned. With a grunt, he settled back into the cushions, submitting to the ministrations of the nymphs, content to wait in their company until his brother and his woman returned, but uneasy all the same and pulling at his beard in concern.

 

*

 

Being out of the city always refreshed both Loki and Káta in ways they never realised they needed, and it made them all the more reluctant to return. It was like having a suffocating blanket removed, and they had been more than happy to give their horses their heads, and let them roam as they willed.

            For all the outward semblance that things between them had returned to normal, the silences that fell between them sometimes felt more like uneasy impositions rather than the comfortable tranquillity they had previously shared, heavy with what remained unspoken.

The burden of what lay unsaid between them made Loki uneasy. He was unused to having matters weigh on his conscience, and that particular part of him had become stronger of late. Whatever the changes he had undergone, however, he was in no way equipped to handle the results, and so kept his silence, puzzling over the matter to himself.

Káta could feel Loki’s discomfort. Once, she might have asked him about it and tried to coax the issue out of him, but not knowing what had happened while he was away she was reluctant to press him for fear that she might cause a relapse. Seeing him again brought the greatest relief imaginable, but at the same time she could not deny her heartache. Nor did she have any wish to, but she would not wallow. That trap she refused to fall into and she had never been particularly comfortable with excessive self-pity. She _had_ wallowed – that she did not deny – but now Loki was back, and with the strong appearance that a great deal of good had been done in his absence, Káta had the bright sensation of hope with which to distract her heart.

With the passing days, and her determination and natural optimism on her side, Káta had soon found herself able to forget her heartache most of the time. There were of course moments when her heart was suddenly shot through with emotion, rendering her suddenly dumb, and others when she wished, fiercely, to simply declare herself and let the cards fall, wearied by the deception. From the first moment that the notion had entered her head, however, she had known, unequivocally, that she would prefer to keep the words hidden inside her and remain Loki’s friend, than speak before the time was right and lose his regard and company forever. In this vein she silently resigned herself to friendship with as much contentment as she could muster, and although it was hard, the alternative was impossible.

One of those uncomfortable silences had fallen between them as they rode back into Asgard, as though being within the confines of the city walls once more had put some kind of imposition on them, barring them from speech, when before, out on the plains, conversation and silences had flowed easily between them.

Loki watched as Káta dismounted in the courtyard, trying to think of something to say as she led Sólfríðr into her stall, and beginning to brush the mare down, his own mount, Magn, waiting patiently behind him for the return ride back to Valhalla. There was much and more that he wished to speak to Káta of, matters which he had never even given serious thought to before now, but which somehow seemed to have taken on an astonishing importance. He wanted to share with her the delicious madness and contentment that touched his heart whenever he saw her, but he had known nothing of such matters before, and if anything he knew even less now. How was one to put such a feeling into words, or to even begin to explain that which he still did not fully understand? He felt like a fledgling, barely hatched, and stumbling uncoordinatedly about the nest, eager to soar effortlessly through the air and trying to flutter his wings, but finding that he did not know how to work the muscles, let alone fly.

Magn sensed his master’s discomposure and pranced on the spot, tugging at the reins Loki still held and letting out a snort of encouragement that ruffled Loki’s hair from behind, flopping his fringe over his eyes.

Loki puffed his hair out of his vision and turned to eye the stallion sternly; the last thing he wanted or needed was advice from his horse.

Káta laughed. “I think Magn is trying to tell you something.”

“‘Hurry up, I want my oats,’ in all likelihood,” Loki replied dourly as Magn let out a self-satisfied whinny and amusement. “I’d better be getting back.” He turned a reluctant half-smile to Káta.

“He can eat in the stables here, if you like,” Káta replied, smiling back at Loki with half amusement, half shyness. “That is, if you wanted to stay longer.”

Loki blinked for a few moments, a warm flush creeping into his cheeks to mirror that which had begun to colour Káta’s. “Oh.” He paused a moment. “Oh, well, I don’t know how well he’d like–”

Magn ended Loki’s half-hearted refusal by promptly clopping past them to join Sólfríðr where she was nosing about in her manger.

Loki closed his mouth with a putout frown at his horse, then grinned weakly at the smiling Káta. “I think he likes Sólfríðr,” he said by way of a feeble excuse.

Káta’s smile widened as they regarded the pair of horses. Sólfríðr was nose deep in the manger, snuffling about. Magn, however, was nibbling a few locks of her mane, a mischievous glint in his eyes. Sólfríðr let out a shrill whinny, butting Magn in the chest with her forehead, but allowed him settle down to eating beside her without fuss. “I think she likes him too.”

They watched their mounts for a few moments longer, and Loki shuffled his feet awkwardly. “Káta…” Loki frowned as he tried to collect his thoughts into a coherent question.

“Yes?”

“I – that is to say, do you-”

“ _LOKI!_ ”

Loki spasmed as though electrocuted, stuck halfway between twitching and freezing on the spot. He jerked about in the direction of the voice, and Káta leant sideways to look around him at the newcomer.

Thor strode towards them, large, boisterous, and happy to have at last discovered his brother.

Loki stared with open and unblinking eyes at the impossible sight that was Thor. How in the Nine Worlds had _Thor_ of all people managed to find them here of all places?

“Brother!” Thor was upon them now, and swept Loki up into a bone breaking hug.

“ _Thor?_ ” the strangled word was squeezed out of Loki as all the air in his lungs was crushed from them. He struggled in Thor’s grip, and eventually managed to regain his feet.

“I have been waiting the whole day here for you to return,” Thor rumbled genially, “I can see why you spend so much time down here.” He winked.

Loki rolled his eyes. “How did you know I would be here?” he asked severely.

“Kvasir,” Thor replied brightly.

Loki glanced around for the god of inspiration, blood thirsty ideas rising to his mind. Kvasir, however, having anticipated Loki’s displeasure at being received by his brother, had beat a hasty retreat the moment Thor had seen Loki, and had decided against meeting the god of mischief for at least a week.

Káta watched the brothers’ interactions with amused interest, curious to discover that their relationship seemed to have resurrected itself. Thor, after clapping Loki on the back, turned to regard her with what she was surprised to see were suspicious eyes. She blinked bemusedly back at him as he scrutinised her, and, belatedly remembering her manners, dropped a low curtsey. “Prince Thor.”

The sound of Káta’s voice drew Loki out of his thoughts of retribution regarding Kvasir, and he swiftly interposed himself between his brother and the demigoddess. “Why are you here?”

Thor frowned, his heavy gaze shifting from Káta to his brother. “To see you, of course. And to find out what it is that you’ve been doing all this time. Don’t think I didn’t notice you sneaking off before.” Thor allowed himself a moment of proud reflection on his abilities of observation. “And you shouldn’t start it again now,” he waved a warning finger at his brother. “You don’t want another argument with Father.”

“What I do is none of your business, Thor,” Loki replied tartly; he had no wish to think of his father – he had more important concerns in hand.

“It _is_ my business, Loki,” Thor replied crossly, “because I’m your brother, and I’m supposed to look out for you.”

“ _Look out for me?_ ” Loki spluttered incredulously. “It’s been a long time since you’ve done that, _brother_.” Loki’s sarcasm had a sharp sting in it, the pain of which was felt by both siblings. Káta winced.

Thor had the grace to look ashamed of himself. “I don’t deny that, but I’m going to make amends now – I want us to be friends again, Loki; brothers again. And I don’t want to see you in trouble with Father simply because of some nymph.”

Loki paused a moment, wrong-footed by the plain sincerity of his brother’s words. If there was one thing Thor had never excelled at it was lying, and Loki knew that he was speaking the truth now. “Can we talk about this elsewhere?”

Thor shook his head stubbornly. “No, I want to sort this out here and now.” He attempted to look around Loki to meet eyes with Káta, but Loki shifted, shielding her from view. “Brother, I need to talk to this nymph.”

“No.”

“ _Brother_ -”

“I said _no_ , Thor.”

“Loki, it’s ok.” Káta laid a gentle hand on Loki’s rigid back, stepping out from behind him to face Thor. She gave Loki an encouraging smile, and squeezed his hand. His overprotectiveness was sweet, but she didn’t want to drive a new wedge between the brothers just when it seemed that they might have overcome their old issues. “He’s just looking out for you.”

Thor watched with no small amount of confusion and interest as his brother turned to the girl, his expression softening as he met Káta’s eyes, returning her smile, his fingers tightening around hers. Something seemed to pass between them, and at last with great reluctance Loki allowed Thor to face her unimpeded, although he did not release her hand.

“What is it that you would like to know, Prince Thor?” Káta asked politely.

Thor stared at Káta confused, his mind working fast. He rather thought he might have caught the wrong end of the stick in this. “We’ve met before…” he said slowly, unsure about how to continue given this strange turn of events, but aware that he couldn’t simply stand there staring at her in confusion while he tried to work things out.

Káta nodded. “In the library.”

“What’s your name?”

“Káta, my Prince.”

“And you and my brother…?”

“We’re friends.”

“Friends?” Thor’s eyebrows lifted. As far as he could remember Loki had never really had a friend. He had always snuck off by himself a lot, but as far as he had ever known, it had never been to spend time with friends.

“Friends,” Káta affirmed simply.

Thor’s eyes flickered to his brother, and found that Loki’s eyes were fixed on Káta with a peculiar expression of ambivalence, simultaneously pleased and dissatisfied. There was something strange between them – something far more complex than he was able to fathom, but Thor knew when he was talking to an insincere person, and whatever else she might be, this nymph was not that. “Well,” he said gruffly, trying to marshal his thoughts as quickly as possible, “in that case…I think it only proper that you come to one of our evening feasts sometime. I don’t suppose Loki has ever invited you to one?” he eyed his brother reproachfully, friendly now that his concerns were alleviated. If this girl was his brother’s first friend, then little wonder he had been so distracted – Thor knew well just how easy it was to become side-tracked from duties and commitments by the escapades he and his friends had gotten up to in his younger days. Loki was probably just a late developer – that was what they called them, right?

Loki stiffened, the thought of introducing Káta to all the other members of Valhalla incited terror and discomfort in him. They would have no end of interruptions and nosey eavesdroppers if that happened, and right now that was the very last thing he wanted.

Káta could feel Loki’s distaste, but smiled politely to Thor. “You are most generous, Prince Thor, but I –”

“Call me Thor, please!” Thor interrupted.

Káta smiled. “Even so, I do not know when we might be able to take you up on your offer. As you know, your brother is not overly fond of company at present, and I am inclined to follow his lead.”

“Oh, that’s no trouble!” Thor exclaimed. “You can come to one of the quieter feasts – towards the end of the evening. Or, better yet, I’ll hold a feast in my halls for you – and you may choose who and how many are to come; a friend of my brother’s must share in the hospitality of our father’s table.”

“You are very kind.” Káta curtseyed, Thor bowed, and with a pleased clap on Loki’s back, strode away.

Loki waited until Thor was out of sight before he turned to Káta, taking both her hands in his. “You don’t need to if you don’t want to,” he said quickly. “I can take care of Thor. He can be too insistent sometimes.”

Káta shook her head, and smiled sweetly. “If you don’t mind, I think it would be nice. I’d like to get to know your brother better. He may be brash, but he’s kind – and he does care for you.”

Loki nodded, and sighed. Something of this sort had to have happened eventually, he knew. It had been the risk of bringing Káta to Valhalla in the first place. “I know. Well,” he said slowly, “perhaps if we were careful about who came, it might not be too bad.”

Káta smiled. “Do I detect a mischief making opportunity in your eyes Loki?”

Loki grinned. “Now that you mention it, yes…I rather think you do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELCOME TO THE CHAPTER OF SUBTEXT!! XD (Mainly in that stables scene between Loki and Káta) :3 :3 :3  
> But yes, things are rather awkward between them at the moment. But never fear - the next chapter will have you dancing. And the one after that screaming (and not with joy).  
> Thor is being rather wonderful in this chapter, too. :D Yay for brotherly bonding! And Kvasir's pretty on the ball when it comes to Spana *shakes fist at her*.
> 
> Also, I finally named Loki's horse.  
> Magn means 'might, main, power, strength'
> 
> Hum. Not too much else to say, I think. I would have posted this chapter earlier in the week, but then I got news of Terry Pratchett's death, and was too sad to. We've lost an incredible author in him, and he was only sixty six! It's such a shame, but I believe it's a welcome rest for him, given his Alzheimer's. So rest in peace, Sir Terry.
> 
> Despite this sad news, I hope you enjoyed the chapter :)
> 
> Please give Kudos and/or comment :) Tell me what you like or don’t like :) Questions and speculations are always welcome :D As is incomprehensible flailing if that's what you go in for :)  
> Also, if you like this story, or any of my other ones, and you want access to sneak previews on chapters that I'm working on, you can Like my Facebook page, and Follow my Twitter or Tumblr :)  
> https://www.facebook.com/josephinetomkinsauthor  
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	42. Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Loki's lives cross and merge, he comes to a realisation that has been dawning slowly on him ever since he first met Káta.

Loki vacillated constantly on the matter of the feast – even after Káta had tendered their acceptance of the invitation to Thor, and the three of them had begun planning, she and Loki joining Thor in his chambers. He did not want her made the subject of every wagging tongue in Valhalla, just as much as he did not want to share her company with any other – for he knew that her mere connection to him would result in a tidal wave of gossip, and that would spell the end of any reasonable degree of privacy or anonymity. What was between them was private, not for the eyes and ears of others, and certainly not for the entertainment of rumourmongers and scuttlebutts. But it seemed that no matter how careful he was, or how much he tried to stop it, such matters would always have been taken out of his hands eventually, and now they had. Káta did her best to allay his misgivings, reassuring Loki whenever he came to her suggesting that they not go after all, doing his best to convince her to change her mind, but without knowing all his concerns she could not dispel them, and his worry seemed excessive.

Despite all Loki’s anxieties in the lead up to the feast, there eventually turned out to be very little to cause it in the end. The dining party was small, just Thor, Loki, Káta, Kvasir, Rúna, and Ullr. There had been some suggestion of inviting Svana and Unna to balance the numbers, but Loki did not trust them to keep their mouths shut, and had refused point blank – as it was it had been hard to convince him to allow Rúna to come, and Kvasir he still was faintly annoyed with.

Regardless of their small numbers, however, Thor had determined to feast them richly, and had outdone himself in the preparations. Between the six of them they managed to eat their way through nine courses, drink nine different vintages of mead, and dance what little remained of the night and morning away. Loki had managed to vent some of his ill feeling towards Kvasir during the fifth course, which had involved a capriciously floating gravy boat, and afterwards towels, but Kvasir had expected reparation of some form, and had laughed the matter off. While the last vestiges of night had continued to cling determinedly to the sky before the dawn light swept them away, they finally indulged in storytelling – a great tradition at Asgardian feasts, and Loki had surprised them all with a tale that he illustrated using an astonishing light and smoke display conjured up with his seiðr.

Eventually, the party broke up, Rúna creeping off with Kvasir into the darkness of the corridors, Ullr and Thor propped against each other, asleep and snoring. Loki and Káta had slipped through the quiet corridors, Loki taking Káta to one of the larger feasting halls to show her just how big some of the gatherings could be. The vaulted ceilings were palled in darkness, and their all but silent footsteps echoed up into the rafters.

With a grin, Loki conjured a wooden flute and lyre, the instruments striking up a very soft, lilting tune as he bowed to Káta, a hand extended. They had danced as dawn came over the city, for all the world alone in the universe, until the sounds of the new day beginning began to fill the corridors, and they parted ways.

 

Encouraged by how well the first feast had gone, Loki gradually began to bring Káta to other small feasts and parties, although never without vetting those in attendance. He had been nervous of what might happen, how things between them might change with these new developments, concerned, despite himself, that she might decide to favour one of the other gods once she met them, but Loki was relieved to find that if anything they were drawn closer together. He watched Káta interacting with people he had known his entire life, the sensation of seeing her laughing and talking with them strange, her behaviour towards him unchanging. There were moments when he could tell she desired their alone time as much as he, when silence would fall between them as they sat together, either with a careful few inches of space between them in disapproved of company, or with their arms linked amongst friendlier companions, as the others talked and guffawed, and she would glance up at him with a wry smile, to which his blink of agreement would be enough, and they would sometimes slip away quietly together, unnoticed absentees amongst the merriment.

Word soon spread that she was his companion, however, as he had known it would, but Thor was observant enough to be aware that there was something important and delicate happening between his brother and the girl, and had taken it upon himself to quash rumours and eliminate gossiping on the matter as much as he could. He did a good job, protecting Loki and Káta from very nearly all that occurred, for few wished to incur his wrath, and the God of Thunder was known to strike quickly and hard where he deemed it necessary. It required a good deal more subtlety and subterfuge than he had, especially to keep his involvement from Loki, but Thor found the freshness of the experience rather enjoyable, testing his wits and abilities, and his pride in his success was only doubled whenever he thought of the fact that he was doing it for his brother.

As Loki relaxed more he and Káta began going out into the city once more. The urchins were pleased to see them again, dragging Káta about just as much as they did Loki, eager to acquaint them with what they had been doing, and showing them little things they had made or found, and occasionally stolen.

At such times they moved surrounded by a sea of excited faces, swept along by the tide of grubby individuals into whatever game or mischief they had in mind. Other days they simply wandered through the streets, aimless and content to end up where their feet took them.

On one such occasion they came across a pair of gods with whom Káta had a particular grudge. They had met at one of the feasts, and towards the end of the evening, during the recounting of a fight they had been in, Káta had taken exception to the way the gods had portrayed Loki in the tale, for they had claimed the success as their own, denying Loki’s crucial involvement in it. The ensuing disagreement had left the gods angry and unmasked, Káta superior but still annoyed, Thor amused, and Loki seized with the foreign desire to take Káta and kiss her heartily, regardless of their company.

At the sight of them Loki’s mind wandered back to that night, dwelling with equal amounts of satisfaction and terror on that strangest of impulses. He was too engrossed in the memory, still puzzling over the astonishing compulsion, to notice their glances and sniggering. Káta, however, was less oblivious.

She remained by Loki’s side, simmering with untapped anger, her eyes trained on the pair as they passed one another, bursting with her enmity. The gods bowed with mocking theatricality.

“Prince Loki.”

Loki, still dwelling on the same heart racing thoughts, did not hear them, did not even see them anymore, and ignored the faux courtesy.

The gods sneered, and passed by, affront in their expressions.

“What a pathetic excuse for a god,” one muttered.

Káta whipped around, her movement starling Loki out of his daydream – in which he had acted upon the desire, his body now rushing with strange emotions and giddy feelings – lunging for the offending god’s throat and pinning him to the wall behind.

The god was only halfway through an unmanly screech of fear before it was interrupted by Káta’s other hand cannoning into his jaw, at which his squeal doubled in volume, now mixed with deeply unimaginative swearing.

“How dare you!” she cried, delivering a stunning slap to the same place. “How _dare_ you!”

Loki watched the event unfold in blank astonishment as Káta let the god drop, turning to take the other one to task, only to find he had already taken to his heels and nearing the end of the street. She seized her skirts, ready to give chase, but Loki took her by the elbow.

“He’s not worth it.”

Káta turned eyes burning with indignation on him as the other god pulled himself up and followed his companion, stumbling and still cursing. “They deserve it, Loki! Let me go!” she exclaimed, attempting to tug her arm from his grip.

Loki shook his head. “I don’t care what they say – it doesn’t matter.”

Káta stilled, her frown of anger transformed into an expression of blank astonishment. Slowly, she smiled.

Loki tucked the hand she had hit the god with over his arm. It was already beginning to bruise over the knuckles. “Come on, let’s find somewhere I can fix this for you.”

 

With Thor’s help (mainly in the form of nudges and not so subtle reminders) Loki was able to maintain his double life with greater ease than before. The blending of them made things a little simpler, as well as more complicated, but he trusted Thor enough to leave Káta in his guardianship at times when had to be called away by his duties. Thor, who now trusted Káta completely, had no qualms about taking her aside for a quiet word the moment he was able to do so without arousing Loki’s suspicions, soliciting her help to ensure his brother’s continued fulfilment of his responsibilities, and was deeply pleased by the enthusiasm with which she agreed to his suggestion.

Káta was all too happy to help keep Loki from Odin’s anger, especially now that he seemed to be doing so well. She didn’t need Loki to tell her what had happened while he had been away. His behaviour now he had returned was sufficient indicator of what he might have undergone, despite the fact that she had no idea exactly how the changes to his character had been effected. She could see that a burden had been lifted from him, opening him, and that was all she needed to know. If he ever felt the need to share the exact circumstances with her, she would be happy to listen, but she was not impatient for knowledge of the particulars. He was safe, and was better than she might ever have hoped him to be, and that was more than enough for her.

Despite this, however, Thor (whose level of guile was about on par with Ullr’s in that it was next to non-existent) soon acquainted her with all the details he knew of Loki’s apparent illness. On his first approach for her help regarding his brother, and his concerns regarding their father’s potential wrath, he had explained in full the circumstances that had led to his concerns. He had told her of his brother’s extended torpor following a rather regrettable incident with their father after abandoning his duties, and of his sudden change after he had awoken. Thor had been careful to stress the point that he in no way blamed her for Loki’s absences, and that he was exceedingly glad that Loki seemed so happy now, and that he had such a good friend in her (at which Káta’s heart had let out a sigh of wistful pain), but he did not want his brother to begin neglecting his duties once more, as it would benefit no one. Káta had reassured the thunder god, glad that Loki had a brother such as him, and interested in the method by which Loki had undergone his transformation. Now that she knew for certain what had happened during his absence, she felt confident that those dark scars in his psyche were at last beginning to heal, and the thought delighted her heart.

Unbeknownst to any of them, Frigg was also playing a part behind the scenes. Over the course of Loki’s convalescence, and in the time afterwards Frigg had been pleased to observe the changes taking place in both her sons. Thor seemed to have frown in mindfulness and maturity, just as Loki had increased in his affection and light heartedness.

She had watched them grow apart during their adolescence with an anxious heart, well aware that it was the desire for their father’s approval, and the bias with which it was bestowed that formed the growing wedge between them. Now, however, that barrier no longer seemed to exist. Of late she had seen them in each other’s company more and more often, such that she dared to hope that the sweet brotherhood they had shared in their younger days might have at last returned.

With this in mind, and a desire to preserve their renewed liking for each other, she began to intervene in her husband’s plans. Whenever he mentioned speaking to either of his sons, either to check on their progress in a certain matter, or to give a further order, she quickly interposed herself, saying she would take the inconsequential task upon herself, and leave him to his more important duties. She was not sure whether her interference was noticed by her husband, but if it did good for her sons, then she would be happy.

 

For his part, Loki began to dwell more and more on his desire for Káta. He still did not understand the origins or the impetus for his previous wish to kiss her, only that it remained, a latent undercurrent to his daily activities, strengthened and brought forth whenever he set eyes on her, but as inexplicable as ever. He did know that he desired her, however – not merely as the friend and companion that she was, but as something greater, something more constant and unbending that he was yet to put a name to, but which he could feel hovering on the outer reaches of his mind, tantalisingly close to his understanding.

They were resting on roof above his rooms one night when comprehension of it at last came to him.

He had taken them up to a bowl-like depression in the roof which he had made long ago, the better to watch the stars. The gold looked like beaten silver in the starlight, pierced with the diamond speckling of the stars above, and coloured with the spinning arms of galaxies and supernovas. Káta was dozing, half covered with a bearskin, and slowly falling deeper into sleep in the centre of the depression, curled on her side, and surrounded by her usual golden glow, the light rippling slightly off the roof whenever she shifted.

Loki had at first lain beside her, telling her a soft story from a book he had been reading, but had fallen silent as her eyelids had closed, content to remain there, gazing at her tranquillity, and drinking it in. The realisation that he had never voluntarily spent so much time in another’s company as he did with Káta slowly dawned over him. He had never minded being alone, in fact he enjoyed his solitude – treasured it, had often fought hard to keep it, but he did not want to be lonely. He had been able to shut out the feeling most of the time before he had met Káta, anger had helped him burn it out and keep him warm, but now he did not have that pitch flame. Káta’s presence had replaced it, warming him more thoroughly than anything before, and although he had the thought of her to sustain him, her absences made him feel the threat of loneliness keenly.

Loki blinked. The realisation was so simple, and yet deeply profound, calming all that which had agitated him. With Káta he no longer feared loneliness, she freed him of that great moroseness without impinging on his solitude. And he knew she never would simply because she valued hers as he did his own. The old fear of her leaving him and Asgard behind reared its head, but before it could even open its mouth for a clarion call that would chill his heart, a golden gush of warmth swept through him on the wave of a realisation that he had been struggling to complete for what felt his entire life.

It had begun to dawn on him in earnest when he had first taken her to his rooms. She completed them as she completed him. She made him whole. And if he lost her, he knew it would be more excruciating than having each of his limbs removed in the most exquisite of tortures. They could flay him and cut out his heart, and it would be nothing, nothing at all to the pain of losing her. He felt something…something _more_. It was as though he had always felt it, but it was only now that he knew, only now that he was aware of the astonishing depth of feeling that he harboured for her, only _now_ , at long last, that he had a name for it. A new feeling to put to the word _love_. A feeling the obliterated all others in its power and sensation.

In the past love had been the means through which he had sustained the most hurt, but now, with Káta, it was something different; a way to heal – a feeling that surpassed all others, an emotion that motivated him above and beyond all obligations. He did not know when Káta had first touched his heart, nor how she had managed to pass the fortress he had erected around it. He only knew that he loved her. _He loved her._ Only her. With all that he was, and all that he would ever be.

He turned his eyes upon her slumbering form, his body rushing with his own vitality at the knowledge that his newly liberated heart was joyously roaring with. The temptation to kiss her was strong now, stronger than ever before; strong enough to overhaul the resilience and self-control of a God. He _wanted_ her. He knew that now. There was some force that drew him to her, _tied_ him to her – some sort of connection he hadn’t been aware of until now, but that he felt sure had connected them across their entire lives, and that would never be broken. It would stretch across any distance, bridge any gap, a filament so fine it could never be seen, but so strong that he would always feel it now that he knew it existed.

But he couldn’t give in to it; the temptation. He refused to.

There had been a time when he might have merely taken what he wanted, had he felt such an urge and with such strength before, heedless of whether it was what she wanted or not. But he had not been capable of such feelings, of such an intensity of desire before. He had never felt anything akin to this, in the strength or depth of feeling, nor the type. It was new to him. Beautifully new. And resisted all such temptation.

Now, things were different. He was different. And he could not do what he wanted, because what he wanted had changed, and he did not have the right abilities to achieve it. His world had somehow simplified and yet become infinitely more complex at the same time. Things were different. More difficult. But they were worth the effort more than anything before had ever been, and hard as it might be, Loki was prepared to fight his entire life for this. It was a cause that taken up, he would never set aside. There was no higher purpose; it was the pinnacle of all that resided within him, the height of his goodness, and he would never do anything to jeopardise it.

He sat up, pulling himself away from Káta with a superhuman effort, and perched on the edge of the bowl, breathing deeply and taking in a world that seemed made new. His heart was beating ready to burst right out of his chest and fly out into the stars to wing its way around the World Tree with the force of his feelings. His body felt too small to hold such a depth of emotion, too fragile to contain all that he was experiencing, so that he was surprised that he had not already disintegrated into a cloud of particles, screaming with their own delight. It was burning him up from the inside out, as though he had swallowed a comet the size of a planet which had lodged in the centre of his chest, lighting him up with its brightness, exulting in its glory.

He chanced a glance over at Káta, and the comet flared with its own life, almost levitating him. A smile, somehow huge but small, spread across his face, only to be frozen by a thought that sank the comet down to the pit of his stomach in a doused lump. How did Káta feel? She was his friend, that much was clear – had been made even clearer upon her meeting Thor, painfully so – but what if that was where she wanted it to stop? He knew so little about love, about this kind of love. What was one to do? How was one supposed to act? How did one _know_?

An ache filled his previously weightless heart, tying it down and deflating it, and he could not help but wonder at the potential hopelessness of the situation. How was it that he could go from the very heights of all elation to this most debilitating of all agonies? He did not know what to do, and until he knew what Káta felt, he could do nothing, and he would not risk losing her friendship. He could not make a single wrong move, not if it meant risking the loss of the darling of his heart. He would do more to keep her friendship than he would to save his own life.

He turned to rest his eyes on her, his entire body bittersweet with love and pain. There was nothing to do but carry on as before, to pretend and to lie, and to hope that this sweetest of all hopes might have a chance at being fulfilled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMGGGGGGGGGG LOKI'S FINALLY REALISED THAT HE LOVES KATA! HANG OUT THE FLAGS! LET THERE BE DANCING IN THE STREETS! REJOICE, REJOICE, REJOICE!  
> *takes a massive breath*  
> I have been waiting to post this chapter for such a loooong time! Parts of this have been written for a very long time now. It's taken Loki this long to realise that he loves Káta because he's never associated this kind of feeling with love before, so he's had to overcome a lot of what lies in his past before he could begin to realise that what he feels for her is love. *squishes face until it disappears* I'M SO VERY VERY PROUD OF HIM :3  
> And as for his impulse to kiss her... *SWOONS* Be still my beating heart!  
> And Thor is being so amazing! It's taken him a little while since their adolescence to mature to where he is now, and the transformation has taken place mostly over the course of the story, even though there isn't much about in to begin with, BUT I'M SO PROUD OF HIM!!! *hugs self* He's being such a great brother.  
> It's all about me being proud of the brothers in this one XD.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed it :D
> 
> Please give Kudos and/or comment :) Tell me what you like or don’t like :) Questions and speculations are always welcome :D As is incomprehensible flailing if that's what you go in for :)  
> Also, if you like this story, or any of my other ones, and you want access to sneak previews on chapters that I'm working on, you can Like my Facebook page, and Follow my Twitter or Tumblr :)  
> https://www.facebook.com/josephinetomkinsauthor  
> https://twitter.com/jtomkinsauthor  
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	43. True Fear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spana's plan at last begins to come to fruition, but with Loki detained by Odin, will he be in time to save Káta?

Loki’s perusal of the latest book Káta had given him was interrupted by the arrival of a pair of einherjar guards.

It was barely a week since his realisation on the roof, and the strain of pretending not to care as he now knew he did was becoming increasingly difficult. He couldn’t help but let his hand linger on hers when they touched, and repressing the thrill that rippled through his body when she unexpectedly brushed against him was impossible. He heard her voice with a new music, and the beauty of her mind and body seemed opened to him in new ways that he had never thought of before. It was as though some grey curtain had been lifted so that now at last he could see her and all the rest of the world with all the scintillating brilliance of their true life and vivacity.

There were times when he came dangerously close to speaking the secrets of his heart, and he began to find that love’s temptations were far more dangerous than any other. Things were easiest when Káta was away, less tempting, but then he would have his longing for her presence as his constant companion like a physical ache, as though a hand had reached into his chest to squeeze his overfull heart, twisting it as she tilted the axis of his world.

“Prince Loki,” one said, bowing, “the Allfather wishes to speak to you.”

Loki’s brow creased slightly, vivid memories of his last audience with Odin rising to his mind, and of Káta’s reaction. He winced internally. Nevertheless, he laid down the book. It was time that he faced his father again. “Where is he?”

“His private chambers, but –”

“Very well, you may go.”

The guards did not leave, but exchanged a glance, embarrassed. “It was the King’s express wish that we escort you there, my Prince,” replied the second, unable to meet Loki’s gaze.

Loki’s frown deepened, his eyes narrowing in thought; this was playing out all too similarly to last time. But now he was different.

He stood, and allowed the guards to precede him from his Halls, wondering what it was that Odin wished to talk about that necessitated his sending an armed escort.

 

The guards saw Loki right into the Allfather’s private chambers, which lay behind the lesser throne room of Valhalla, then exited, leaving them completely alone together.

Loki preserved a calm countenance, standing not cowed, but erect as he observed his father pacing back and forth by his desk, his hands clasped in the small of his back. The Prince considered it to be a small mercy that Gungnir was not present, and felt a little reassured by the fact they were not in the lesser throne room. It gave him another small measure of confidence.

When, after several long minutes of silence, when only the sound of the Allfather’s footsteps echoed in the chamber, Loki deemed it best to speak.

“Father; you sent for me,” he began, crossing his chest with his arm. “What is it that you wish of me?”

Odin ignored the gesture and words, but halted; his back to his son. “I have been observing your behaviour of these past months, Loki,” he said, his voice musing but stern, and he began to pace once more. “I do not mind your sullenness – it is how you have always been, but abandoning your duties entirely is not a matter I can overlook.” Odin’s tones slowly grew in volume and exasperation as he spoke, although he never reached a shout, at last glancing at his son. “I addressed these problems with you when last we spoke, and yet I find myself still waiting for an answer as to why you have behaved thus.”

Loki blinked, confused as to where this was leading, and confounded by the fact that Odin had even noticed his movements.

“Your mother,” and here Odin’s expression became drawn with disapproval, “has kept me from taking his matter up with you after your _illness_ until she deemed you to be of sufficient health, and even since she gave her consent she appears to have been shielding you from me.” Odin drew a long sigh. “She has often been soft on you in the past, and I do not doubt that it is her meddling in such matters as this that has resulted in such a dissatisfactory outcome.” Odin glanced Loki up and down distastefully. “You required discipline, and she did not provide it, and she has often prevented me from providing it – and now we have this problem!” he gestured angrily at Loki, the dismissive sweep of his arm taking in the entirety of him.

Through the gratitude he felt for his mother, Loki could not ignore the pain Odin’s words caused him. When once they might have felt like a hammer blow on the iron of his heart, however, they now seemed more distant – faint echoes, the peals of which took time to reach him.

“I do not expect you to be equal to Thor,” Odin continued slowly, “Mímir knows I don’t expect that! But I _do_ have expectations of you – expectations which haven’t been fulfilled. Mercurial as your disposition is, your behaviour has been unusual, and dissatisfactory – even by your own appalling standards. Explain.”

 

*

 

Káta had decided to go out of the city. She didn’t have any particular destination in mind, but she had grown restless and just wanted to ramble aimlessly and see where her feet took her. It was a habit that she had fallen into early in her youth, although when she had been youngest she had not been allowed to stray beyond the bounds of the protection of the orchards. The dryads had always said it was the wild blood in her, and she had never really known what they meant when they said it, even when they had explained that it was the nature of all wild things of the earth to roam and seek.

She had turned Sólfríðr loose at the edge of the forest where the grass was longest, knowing that the faithful beast would not wander far and although willing to follow her under the canopy, disliked the closeness of the forest and the hazards of hidden tree roots. As it was, Káta preferred to go by foot in any case, and she followed whichever path seemed simplest or most interesting, and soon enough was happily lost amongst the foliage on the lower slopes of the mountains.

 

*

 

Odin regarded him closely for a few moments, but Loki’s nonplussed silence seemed to goad him into speech once more. “Do you not have an answer for me? I thought that of all people you would be the swiftest to reply?”

“Forgive me, Father,” Loki said quickly, shaking off the last of his puzzlement. “I…I had not thought…” he straightened, disciplining his mind. “I apologise for my indiscretions, but I _have_ returned to my duties now, and you can rest assured that I –”

“‘Rest assured’?!” exclaimed Odin incredulously, pacing agitatedly once more, his demeanour fluctuating between forced calm and outbursts of wrath. “You ask me to rest assured?! How is such a feat to even be attempted? How is one to even begin?! You have never given me a minute of easeful rest, and your assurances hold as little weight as a jötnar’s.”

Startled into silence Loki regarded his father with eyes wide with shock. Odin had never minced words with him in the past, but nor had he ever spoken thus; each syllable that he uttered loaded with vitriol.

“You are a God, Loki! A _God_! You may only barely be one, but a God you are! Do you not know the privilege of your position?! Do you not remember the oaths you took when I conferred the station upon you?!”

“Yes, of course I do, Father,” Loki replied earnestly, ready to recite them if need be, but his words only seemed to incense Odin further.

“ _Enough!_ Enough.” Odin halted his movements once more, and stood, simmering with compressed anger. “You…have _not_ learned. You have travelled thus far on Frigg’s goodwill, but no further, Loki.”

Odin’s words stung Loki in a deep unguarded part of his heart, but he spared the feeling the most fleeting of thoughts. “Then teach me, Father,” he implored, hope daring to dart into his heart at the idea that at long last his father would show him some of the favour he had spent his life watching Thor receive. “Teach me how!”

Odin spared Loki’s supplicating expression the briefest of glances, his own set, and unforgiving. “A God does not abandon his duties. A _God_ does not simply do as he pleases. A _GOD_ is answerable!” Odin glared at Loki, daring him to refute the implied assumption that Loki was none of the virtues he had just listed.

Loki held his father’s gaze for a long moment, his heart burning with the injustice of it, and then finally dropped his eyes.

The triumph seemed to gratify Odin, for he exhaled heavily, relaxing a little.

 

*

 

It was as she paused to tap out some small stones that had worked their way into her shoe that she first heard a sound that alerted her senses to the knowledge that something was amiss. The forest had been humming about her with the calm natural noises of animals and wind in the undergrowth, but through it all came the gentle sound of twigs snapping under a carefully placed boot and the unmistakable slither of leaf litter sliding underfoot. All the animal noises ceased, and their absence was as deafening as the beating of drums.

Káta stilled for the slightest of moments, her ears pricked for any repeat of the noises which might signal the approach of some traveller or a rambler such as herself, ready to receive them with a smile, but the sounds had fallen into careful silence. Concern began to tighten her stomach, but she continued tapping out her shoe, ensuring all the stones were gone, and then replaced it, moving on, her ears straining.

It took near a dozen paces before she heard the sounds again, and it was then that she knew she was being followed. To any ear but hers or an animal’s they would have been indistinguishable from the general rustle and sway of the woodland sounds, but for Káta it was as obvious as the crashing of boulders.

 

*

 

Loki had fallen into a numbed state of betrayal. The foolish hope that had glanced through his heart had been dashed, a fleeting glimpse of the desires he had nursed for so long. He was a fool to have even entertained it. Odin continued to berate him; his remonstrances now falling on deaf ears. It was all playing out as it had done before, as it had every time, and yet now, when he knew better, he had still fallen for that old hope. It was a child’s hope, and he had been a child to grasp at such a straw. It stung him to have fallen for it again. This time, however, he had no Káta to distract him.

A twinge of panic that was not his own flittered through Loki, and he twitched, frowning, his eyes suddenly focussed and searching, his entire attention bent in a different direction, away from his father, away from Valhalla, right out of the city itself.

 _Káta_.

 

*

 

Káta schooled her behaviour, ensuring that she did not to move with any greater care or furtiveness than she had before, doing her best to preserve the same air of carefree aimlessness that she had previously inhabited. She knew that those following her were not of amiable intentions, their very evasiveness and the remarkable woodcraft they possessed were clear indicators that some ill was brewing, and Káta did not want to linger long enough for it to befall her.

The faint bubbling of a spring came to her ears on the wind, and an idea flashed into her mind, which was now working at double its usual pace, frenetic with energy and hyper aware of every detail of her surroundings and thoughts. She bent her steps in its direction, intent on at least catching sight of her tracker’s reflection, even if she was not to know their purpose in following her.

As she walked her mind overflowed with all the possibilities and speculations that such a situation affords. Her heart had already begun to pick up its pace, and she fought fiercely to beat it down and calm herself, knowing that there was little sense in falling prey to the fears of speculation, and determined not to jump at shadows.

 

*

 

Loki frowned, now paying even less attention to Odin before, his mind engrossed with the question of why Káta was feeling anxious in the forest. Had she been in the city, specifically Mærsalr, and feeling the faint ripples of anxiety that he was now receiving from her, his own anxieties would have been aroused for fear that the hatred of the Nipt Þrír might outweigh their fear of Freyja and culminate in an attack on her. But Káta was in the forest, and he had only ever felt contentment and happiness from her while she was there. It defied comprehension.

“ _Boy!_ Listen to me!”

Loki blinked, abruptly drawn back into where he was by Odin’s furious exclamation.

The Allfather regarded the Prince with an angered frown, and continued his lecture, and Loki, after a few moments of abstraction, fled back into his mind and Káta.

 

*

 

After what felt like an age, but was in truth no more than three minutes, Káta reached the spring. It was small, for at its widest point she could easily have leapt across it without fear of not making the jump, and its surface was as still as the finest mirror.

She knelt at its lip as though intending to refresh herself, taking balance from a small boulder to her right, but in reality was tensely on edge, alert for the slightest of sounds that might hint at what was about to unfold. She dabbled her fingers in the water amongst the pondweed where it was shallowest, making splashing noises that were plain to hear, but which did little to disturb the perfection of the pool’s surface.

It was only by bringing to bear every ounce of her control that she did not gasp at the noise that next reached her waiting ears. It was a rattle, hollow and brittle, quickly stifled, and followed by the ominous resonances of wood sliding against wood.

Káta did not need to wait to hear the sound of dimly creaking wood curving in its accustomed manner, nor even the faint ping of an arrow being nocked that preceded it know that her life was in danger.

 

*

 

A throat-choking throb of true fear at last thudded into Loki. Distracted by the debilitating rush of his own and Káta’s fear mixing together and lacing his blood, he broke out of his mind, his eyes at last taking in Odin, who was pacing once more.

“Father, I must go,” he said abruptly, interrupting Odin midsentence.

Odin froze, and slowly turned towards Loki. “What did you say?” he asked with disbelieving slowness.

“I-I have to go,” Loki repeated, his mind already returning to Káta, barely aware of his father or the anger growing in his eyes.

“You will stay,” Odin commanded.

Loki shook his head rapidly as though his father’s refusal was water in his ears. “No. _No._ ” He made to disappear, but none of the usual rush of his seiðr filled him; he could not feel its power creeping in his veins, but rather a complete absence.

He stared up in confusion and met Odin’s enraged but self-satisfied countenance, Gungnir gleaming in his hand. “ _You will stay!_ ” Odin hissed.

Loki’s eyes widened with horror at the realisation that Odin was blocking his seiðr with his own, and fury bubbled up inside him. “Let me _GO_ , Father!” he bellowed.

Odin seemed to freeze at brashness of Loki’s sudden insolence. “You will stay, by the Powers,” he said, his voice low with anger, “or I shall teach you a lesson you shall not forget!”

 

*

 

The pool was of no use now. A stranger aiming an arrow in secret at her back did not need identifying any further than the title of murderer.

Káta remained where she was crouched, her body alive with energy, blood and spirit thudding together side by side in her veins so powerfully it should have been hard to think. But instead her mind was clear, clearer than it had ever been, and she knew that she had to wait. Wait until the last possible instant.

Her eyes skimmed the surface of the pool, and it was barely seconds before she picked out the archer. He was hidden in a clump of bushes slightly to her left, but had risen up to his waist out of them to take aim for the kill.

Káta did not bother paying attention to his face; her eyes were fixed on his arm as he slowly drew the arrow back further, the bow growing ever tauter under the pressure he was exerting on it. The muscles of his arm stood in clear definition, and it was only then, when his elbow was pointing out behind him, the fletching against his cheek, that Káta turned her eyes to the reflection of his. They were narrowed in concentration, but, for a moment widened, and then she knew it was her time to fly.

With a bound she cleared the pool, water droplets flying from the tips of her fingers, and heard rather than saw the buzz of the arrow followed by the sound of it shattering against the rock in the exact place that mere moments before her heart had occupied.

Cries and uncouth swearing followed her flight, but she did not dare look back; speed and agility were her only resources now, and she could only hope that her footwork was swifter than that of her pursuers.

Like a startled deer, she ran, darting and zigzagging between trees, hurdling over shrubs and bursting through bushes, making the most of what little head start she had. Arrows zipped and buzzed through the air around her, sinking into trees or otherwise becoming lost in the dense foliage, never close enough to find their mark, but close enough to spur her on with greater urgency.

The energy that had been distilling in her all while she had crouched by the spring was now being put to full use, and if this was how she was to fight for her life, then she knew she was in with a decent chance. The blundering and breaking and shouts of her pursuers followed her, and she knew that although she had taken them by surprise, she was far from shot of them. She did not need to see them to know that they would be bigger than her, and although that might aid her swiftness in the denseness of the undergrowth, their strength would surely outmatch hers. She had to trust to her skill and endurance, and the quickness of her still racing mind to save her life.

She worked to pick out the most cluttered route possible, always travelling downhill, hoping perhaps that the steepness of the slopes would favour her better than them, for she was able to bound down them with less fear than most, always aiming for areas clustered with rain smoothed stones and knotted over with the ancient roots of trees.

A dagger flew past her, slicing through a swirl of her dress and just nicking her above the knee tearing a faint cry of alarm from her lips, but redoubling her speed. She heard a crack accompanied by a great bellow of pain, and knew that one of her attackers had fallen, his ankle broken by the treacherous terrain. Had she not been in a race for her life, Káta might have smiled, but instead an idea flew into her mind, and she pursued it with the ruthlessness of the desperate.

Slowly she circled back in the direction that she had originally come, always moving downhill, seeking out a large warren of rabbits that she had passed on her ramble. An insane desire to laugh temporarily filled her for the ridiculousness of the situation she was now in, and the seeming nonsensicality of that which she had been before. Every moment was dire now, every breath hard fought and hard earned, and as the strange giddiness departed, full realisation of her own mortality flooded her mind and quickened her pace which had slacked in her distraction.

It was barely minutes before she burst from the shade of the trees and across the small meadow of the warren, the rabbits having already taken shelter at the sound of her oncoming flight, and she danced across it, navigating the many burrow entrances that riddled the delicate ground before plunging into the trees on the opposite side.

Her pursuers were close enough that they saw her before the happy shadows of the trees had swallowed her however, and picked up speed as they crossed the open terrain, hoping to gain ground on her. One sank up to his knee in one of the burrow entrances with a cry of alarm, crashing through the tunnels below, and another broke through the shallow surface into a shaft that trapped his foot, sending him cartwheeling through the air with a shriek of pain and alarm.

Her first glance back told Káta that she now only had three left to evade, and the knowledge brought some small measure of hope back to her heart. She could outrace three, surely; she had beaten that many already.

Her face and arms were already scratched badly from bursting through shrubs, and her dress was torn in more places than she could count had she had the time to, for it had snagged on many a bush and root. It now did so again, and with a growl of fear and fury Káta wrenched it free, tearing off a great lower strip so that from the knees down she was now bare. The greater mobility suited her and enhanced her speed. Her shoes were long lost somewhere along the wild path she had taken, and barefoot she sped on, her toes able to curl better around the uneven surfaces she tore over.

The sounds of her attackers had quietened somewhat, and Káta chanced a second glance over her shoulder. They had fallen behind, perhaps having attempted to help their stricken companions back at the warren, but as she turned Káta neglected to notice the hollow before her, and distracted she fell, tumbling down the bank to settle in a bruised heap at the bottom, her bare legs and feet tangled in a snarl of dead vines.

Covered in moss and leaves she struggled to regain her feet, but the vines were wrapped tightly about her, their thorns digging into her and holding fast to her flesh. Her pursuers had seen her fall and it seemed to have encouraged them for they were now almost on top of her, suddenly frighteningly close in the few seconds her fall had taken and nearing the edge of the bank, their brutish faces distinguishable in the half light of the forest. Káta became aware of the desperate whimpers that were escaping her mouth as she fought to escape the fatal entanglement of the vines, her fingers scrabbling and pushing blindly at the mess, the thorns cutting her over and over until everything was covered in a sticky slick of drying blood.

The men slid down the bank that she had fallen down, their hands reaching for her, blades shining in them, and at the top she saw their two fellows that the warrens had waylaid approach, evil smiles on their faces and evil weapons in their hands.

 

*

 

Loki knew he had pushed his father too far, and that his only avenue of escape was to ride out the wave of Odin’s fury. He was burning to speak his mind, to tell Odin just what he thought of his lessons, what he thought of _him_ , but Káta was more important than venting his anger at present. As it was he was already cursing himself for increasing Odin’s ire with his outburst, knowing that he had added fuel to the flames, stoking them higher, and that it would now take even longer before his father had exhausted his anger.

Odin had already begun to hector him once more, his anger tenfold of that which it had been previously, and Loki put up the best pretence he could, standing rigid, his hands balled in fists by his sides, fighting for control over his expression. If he didn’t remain impassive, all Helheim would break loose. Káta’s mounting terror did little to aid him, however, for her fear was coursing thickly through him now, every beat of his heart pushing another pulse of it along his veins, his breathing ragged and uneven as he shared in her emotions. Every now and then he would be hit with an extra surge of her panic, enough for him to break his assumed countenance, and knew that a near miss had happened. He could feel his mind racing, thinking of all the things that might be happening to her, imagining scenarios that terrified him more than he had thought possible, all the while spiralling ever deeper into distress and fear for her, his own panic rising alongside hers.

 _Keep it together_ , he kept repeating to himself. _Do it for her, get it over; don’t make it worse. Keep it together!_

 

*

 

The nearest of the men was now less than three paces from her, and Káta let out a scream, brandishing her bloody hands before her in an instinctive gesture of protection. A great thicket of saplings as thick in their girth as her thigh suddenly sprang up between them, an impenetrable wall that shielded her from the advancement of the men for a good ten yards to either side. Káta let out a gasp of relieved amazement, but wasted no further time on her surprise, working to at last free her feet of the vines and scramble back up out of the ditch, gouging great clods of earth from the bank in her haste.

Curses came to her through the thicket, followed by the hacking of swords and the occasional creaking swish of the falling boles, but the trees held.

Hope, which had deserted her in the ditch, now flooded her heart, and as she ran, Káta called out, “Forest! Help me, hear my plea! Give aid to your daughter!”

Her cries did not go unanswered, for there was a great creaking and groaning that rose up from the trees and Káta could have sworn she saw a shudder run through all the trees and plants about her. They were in the deepest part of the forest now, where the light was little and the trees at their thickest. From what the dryads had taught her she knew that the trees were slow to anger, but once roused could unleash a terrible fury, and the low primeval rumble that was thudding through her seemed a sure sign of their rage.

She could hear the sounds of the men behind her once more, and knew that they had managed to make their way past the thicket. The low roar of the forest rose up once more like a typhoon slowly gathering strength far out at sea, and there was a great groaning protestation of swaying wood behind her. Her curiosity was too great to resist, and Káta paused for a moment, clinging to the bark of the oak she was in the act of slipping past, and saw to her amazement twisting vines whipping out from the canopy, darting thorny tendrils towards her now fearful pursuers, reaching for their wrists and curling quickly about them with a grip of living iron. The roots of the trees were writhing underfoot, and one man had become entrapped by them, screaming in agony as the wood slowly tightened its grip about his thigh.

Káta flinched at the crack that came to her as she turned, knowing that the man’s thigh bone had at last given way to the superior strength of the tree in whose grasp he was in, and she ran once more, fleeing the terrifying sounds of the battling forest, and the screams and howls of its unfortunate victims.

Káta did not stop moving until the very last of the shouts had died away in the distance, and it was only then that she allowed herself to halt and catch her breath. She collapsed onto a nearby tree stump, sagging where she sat as weariness flooded her body, replacing the terror and anxious energy of before with bone deep weariness. Controlled fear had been all that she had felt before, any true feeling of it having been dulled and tamped down by the sheer urgency that had overwhelmed her mind, but now that she was safe and had time to pause and think fear such as she had never experienced washed over her.

She had thought what she had felt when Spana and her sisters had drugged her had been the worst she might ever have to experience – the terror of her own immobility in the face of danger, but that night paled in comparison to what now shook her body and mind. Those men had wanted to kill her, and would have already by now if fortune had not graced her. Dizzy, she bent over her knees, unaware of the fact that every single muscle of her body was shuddering with fatigue, and was not at all ashamed to feel tears streaming down her cheeks. Exhausted and overwhelmed, she slid to her knees and toppled sideways, clutching the stump to her chest and emptying the fear and ache of her heart into her sobs.

All through her wild flight she had been aware of the fact that she was running for her life, that her very existence depended on every move that she made, but it was only now that full thought about matters beyond the immediate moment had returned to her that the full realisation of what she had just experienced cannoned into her like a falling mountain. The only other option to where she was now was being dead.

Fear and shock and shaken gratitude threatened to overwhelm her, and it felt as though her heart would break into countless pieces, although she did not know why. She needed the comfort of being enclosed in the safety and security of a person’s arms. One time that might have been her mother or one of the dryads, but now it was only Loki’s touch that she yearned for. He alone might be able to assuage some of the wild terror that was still running rings about her heart, to drive out the terrors flashing through her mind and muscles, and she wished with every particle of her body for him to come.

 

*

 

Loki heaved in a huge breath of relief that was his own mingled with Káta’s, but that was quickly swallowed up in a wave of broken fear and shock that flooded from her. He barely had time to relax at the thought that she was safe before a wave of despairing wretchedness broke over him, and Loki knew that it was even more imperative now that he make his way to her. She needed him now as he had needed her when he had faced his darkest moments, and he was not about to leave her alone.

He stared at his father, his body tingling with urgency, and frustration welled up inside him as he saw that the Allfather had barely even begun to vent his anger.

 

*

 

“Thought you could get away from us, girly?” a horrible snide sneer intruded on her thoughts, and Káta scrabbled backwards with a choked half-scream, her tear-blurred eyes refocusing on the skinny man limping towards her. “I have to say, you helped me back there – getting rid of the others – all the more gold for me and my boys now.” His sallow face was badly cut and his nose was bleeding, and when he moved she could see that his clothing had been rent by the lashes of the vines as had his skin beneath. He spat out a mouthful of blood. “But don’t you think that’s gonna make us go easy on you. And don’t even _think_ about doing any more of that hocus pocus you did back there.”

Horror welled in Káta’s throat and she frantically pushed herself to her feet turning to flee, but not before he had leapt at her, seizing her by the hair. She screamed, and kicked at him, hurting her bare toes horribly, but he pulled her up higher, forcing her to scrabble wildly for some purchase beneath her reaching toes in an attempt to relieve the agony in her scalp. Tears of pain now squeezed from her eyes, and her hands flailed about, trying to find something that might help. Luck favoured her, and one of her hands found his face and dragged down his forehead, her fingers scraping through a deep cut across it before she pushed them into his eyes.

He released her with an enraged howl, and she fell to the ground once more, her head throbbing, and was up and away before he could finish nursing his now bloodshot eyes.

“Follow her!” he screeched. “ _Follow her!_ ” and Káta knew that he was not the only one to escape.

She fled across the leaf-strewn ground, her heart thudding in her throat, but fatigue had begun to set in when she stopped, and her muscles were stiff and no longer wanted to obey the desperately screaming wish of her mind. She began making promises to herself, trying to desperately win over her fading mind and aching body, for both were near to giving up. _They’re as tired as you are; they’ve got injuries to slow them down. Just make it over the next hillock, past the next boulder, through those trees, then I’ll stop; I’ll stop – just past the next tree_.

She made it over the next hillock and past the boulder after it, and past every single tree she had promised herself to stop and rest at, urging herself onwards, lying to herself every step of the way and never believing a single word of it, but forcing her battered body on with it anyway.

Tired, her strength waning, she stumbled on until finally the terrain decided for her and she tripped, spinning through the air and halting her fall by flinging her arms around a tree trunk, her momentum sliding her around it until she faced her pursuers.

What she saw stole what little hope had remained left to her. The man who had accosted her had not been re-joined by his previous companions; there were new men, unfamiliar to her eyes and fresh from any fighting, unburdened with neither weariness nor injury. Even as she watched they were gaining on her, what little distance that remained between them swiftly diminishing, and it was with a sinking heart that she turned tail and ran once more.

Káta had reached the brink of terror. All the calmness that had inhabited her mind before, that had served her so well up until now, seemed to have deserted her, replaced only with the knowledge that she was about to die, and die horribly. Wild with fear she continued to run, blindly now, with no thought of tactics or strategy, her eyes not taking in her surroundings, even though she was madly searching for something in them that might help her, although what that might be she hadn’t the faintest clue.

Her mind seemed to have shut down so that all but the basest of faculties still operated, and it was only the primal instinct for survival that continued to drive her on through the barrier of pain and the fog of her mind. Weakness continued to worm its way into her muscles, slowing her, dulling her senses and reflexes so that she stumbled as often as not. The sounds of her pursuers were getting closer, but Káta did not know what that meant anymore, only that it was accompanied by another all-consuming wave of fear.

She spied a crag amongst the rocks before her, and unaware that she had suddenly taken a course up the slope, rushed for it.

The moment she slipped between the cleft in the rocks she knew she had made a grave mistake, for the gap continued but a little way before it gave out. She darted back to the entrance but flinched back as a dagger struck the rock near her face in a shower of sparks. She flew back to the other end, desperately searching for some outlet, some way of escape that might serve her, but there were none. The walls of the crevice curved back over above her, blocking out much of the light, and at their highest point were so smooth that even she could spot no handholds. What was more inside the stone confines of the fissure there was very little the forest could do to help her, even if she had retained the presence of mind to call on it for aid again. She was trapped without allies or advantage.

The voices of her pursuers came to her, and by the way their words echoed she knew they had entered the funnel in which she was now trapped. Blind with panic she scrabbled at the unforgiving rock face behind her, but in vain. She turned once more, casting about on the ground for a rock that she might use as a weapon, but the ground near her was bare but for fallen leaves.

“Right, girly; we’ve got you now!”

Káta’s head whipped up at the voice, and her eyes widened with fear as she met the rank gaze of a man at the head of her attackers. Not even her intelligence remained to her, she had not the breath to try and stall them, or to talk her way out of the horrible fate she could read in their eyes which they had in store for her so steeped in panic was she.

They began to advance, and pushed to the very limits of her fear, Káta did the only thing left to her. She screamed.

 

*

 

Loki staggered as a wall of terror sailed into him from nowhere, crashing over him with the force of a tsunami.

“Stand up straight!” barked Odin, who seemed to have taken to Loki’s plea for tutelage, and was indulging in it with vicious delight.

Loki struggled to right his posture, panting as Káta’s renewed fear assailed him. This time it was much worse however, and he could feel her beginning to lose grip, spiralling down into the sucking vortex of her fear.

Blind with panic and half out of his mind with fear, Loki turned and dashed to the doors, beating his fists against them though he knew that they were sealed shut with seiðr, before running around the walls of the room, hammering uselessly against them with his fists, beating dents into the metal, inarticulate cries of terror and desperation tearing from his lips. He no longer cared what his father thought, he no longer cared what anyone knew, and he no longer cared to let Odin set his agenda. Káta needed him.

“CEASE THIS MADNESS!” Odin bellowed, Gungnir crashing against the floor with the force of a thousand men. But Loki ran on, heedless to Odin’s imprecations, his ears deaf to them, his mind with Káta, deranged and overtaken with their shared distress.

Gungnir crashed again, and Loki felt his body freeze mid-step against his will, held in a rigor mortis of the Allfather’s creation. His eyes he could still move, however, and he glared at his father, his rage mounting, fighting the seiðr, his mouth slowly changing to a snarl that was eventually given voice in the form of a bellowing roar of fury as he ripped out of the bonds of his father’s seiðr.

He made to dart at Odin, whose eye was wide with astonishment, thinking to seize the great staff from the Allfather’s grip and use it to smash his way through the doors, bereft of all logic, but was prevented from doing so by the entrance of his mother heralded by the sonorous boom of the doors as they slammed open.

Frigg stood in the open doors, taking in the scene with a queenly expression of frozen judgement before her frown alighted on her husband.

Loki felt the block on his seiðr lift at once, power flooding through his veins like life, and spared his mother the most fleeting of grateful glances, and disappeared at once.

Odin stared at the space where his son had been standing, his eyes bulging with impotent fury, then turned on his wife.

“What did you do that for?!” he demanded angrily. “You’re spoiling him! Doing things like that only encourages the sort of lax behaviour he’s been displaying recently. He’s developing a wanton lack of obedience, and didn’t even listen to me when I was speaking to him! If you continue to do things like that he is going to end up with absolutely no respect for anyone, and even more uncontrollable than he already is!”

Frigg regarded her red-faced husband with a cool look, ignoring the many inaccuracies of his outburst. “Loki has urgent business of mine to be about.”

Odin opened his mouth, then shut it, momentarily taken aback. “What business?”

Frigg raised her eyebrows expectantly, turning to leave. “Not all that I do is for your ears, my dear. Do try and calm down.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMG WE'RE FINALLY HERE OMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMG  
> You know that gif of Stephen Colbert freaking out? That's me right now. 8D  
> I HAVE BEEN WAITING TO GET UP TO THIS MOMENT TO POST THIS CHAPTER FOR SO VERY VERY VERY LOONNNG. (No, but seriously, most of this chapter and the next have been written since at least chapter 30).  
> So buckle up, because you've just hit a major climax point in the story, and this is the start of the roller coaster of to the next one! :D
> 
> *collects self*  
> And now on to the chapter itself.  
> Don't you just hate Spana? I mean hiring mercenaries to maim a person isn't terribly nice, but if you're going to do it, at least spell out what you want in no uncertain terms. I deliberately made Spana's specification to the men ambiguous in order that all of this could happen. Yay for misunderstandings and accidental murder commissions!  
> And as for Káta's experience of fear, and the way she transitions from calm to panic, I modelled most of it on my own thoughts and experience during a life or death situation. (Mine was not so exciting as Káta's, thankfully - I nearly drowned when a rip pulled me out to sea a few years ago). So the change from her extremely calm logic to panic, and also her reaction when she thinks she first got away from the men are all sort of semi-autobiographical, I guess you could say.  
> And then of course, there's poor Loki. Odin is so completely evil - he just doesn't know the full extent of how horrible he was to Loki in this chapter, but if he DID, he wouldn't be repentant for it. Thank GOD for Frigg swooping in to save the day.
> 
> I had two main concerns with this chapter: one, was Káta characterised in a way that her fear and reaction to the situation did not make her appear weak? (I hesitate to say, "empowered her" because they don't exactly, but my main point is - I didn't want her appearing to be a standard helpless female, I wanted her to be a resourceful individual, who finds themself in a situation out of their depth); two, was the cross-cutting between Loki and Káta effective? Or did it detract from the reading. I write and construct stories cinematically in my mind, they run like films, so this chapter would definitely lend itself well to the kind of intercutting possible in a filmic medium. Does a written medium pull it off though?
> 
> That's about all, I think. Do look out for the next chapter, I'll post it quite soon. A warning, though: it will contain an extended fight scene (I LOVE writing fight scenes), so if you're squeamish about gore, there's your heads up.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this one! :D
> 
> Please give Kudos and/or comment :) Tell me what you like or don’t like :) Questions and speculations are always welcome :D As is incomprehensible flailing if that's what you go in for :)  
> Also, if you like this story, or any of my other ones, and you want access to sneak previews on chapters that I'm working on, you can Like my Facebook page, and Follow my Twitter or Tumblr :)  
> https://www.facebook.com/josephinetomkinsauthor  
> https://twitter.com/jtomkinsauthor  
> http://jzj-tomkins.tumblr.com/


	44. Rescue and Realisation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Upon his arrival Loki demonstrates just what it is to anger a Prince of Asgard with fatal consequences. Káta, meanwhile, ends up in a dangerous position.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: relatively graphic fight scenes are included in this chapter

“ _LOKIII!!!_ ”

There was a flash that blinded everyone present, and when Káta was able to see once more, the God of Mischief was at her side clad in full armour.

“ _Káta!_ ” Loki’s face was bone white with terror, his eyes wide as he took in her dishevelled appearance, her bloodied hands, and the cuts and grazes that covered her from head to toe.

Káta felt like fainting into his arms with relief, her heart lifting at the very sight of him, but then let out a scream as one of the attackers threw a knife.

Loki whipped around with more speed than Káta thought should have been possible and deflected the flying dagger with the vambrace of his left forearm with a clash and burst of sparks.

He unwound his right arm where it had curled around her waist and then advanced towards the faltering group before him, his expression one of blackest retribution. Blades longer than his forearms appeared in each of his hands, and he paused assessing his opponents.

There was only the briefest of hesitations on their side, and then two of the nine charged forwards, one swinging a great two-headed axe, the other a serrated sword.

Loki seemed almost to dance in between them, his armour flashing as he spun, although not as much as his blades, which shone as though illuminated, deadly flashes of light in the shadows, mere moments later bathed crimson with the same blood that now splattered Loki’s face, drawn from the slit throats of his opponents.

Another three charged towards Loki before their dead companions had even finished falling to the ground, more enraged than scared by the ease with which he had dispatched them, bellowing oaths and war cries.

Loki ducked an axe that would have hewn off his head, and thrust one of his swords into the belly of its owner, unzipping the flesh and spilling the man’s guts even as he parried the furiously flashing sword of a second with his free left hand, and kicked the third in the chest with such force that his breastbone cracked.

Both his swords now at his disposal, Loki pressed his advantage against the swordsman, and it was mere seconds before he had dispatched him, flicking the sword from his hand, and stabbing him through the chest, quickly unsheathing his own blade from the now lifeless body.

The third man was clutching his broken sternum, cowering before Loki’s blood streaked countenance, the gruesomeness of it nothing to the terror inspired by the burning rage that shone in the god’s eyes. Even so, the man attempted an attack and was relieved of his hand at the wrist for his pains. Howling he fell to his knees and Loki ended his suffering with a swift flash of blood-laced steel.

The rusty tang of blood was strong in Loki’s nostrils, and had bloodlust not already been thudding through him with every beat of his heart, it surely would be now. The leaf strewn stone beneath his feet was slick with spilt blood, and the area was narrow, but he had fought in worse conditions before, for the ground was solid, and his rear safe from attack. What was more his opponents, although they might stronger and more resilient than the men of Midgard, they were nothing in comparison to the strength of one of the Æsir. Four only remained to be dealt with, and he turned to them with the same livid expression he had faced those who went before. These men, although angered by their companions’ demise and fearful of Loki’s ability, held their calmness with greater ease than those that had gone before, and all seemed to be battle veterans that had seen many years of war and fighting. They would not be so easily killed.

Káta watched her heart in her mouth. She had fallen soon after Loki had let go of her, her muscles failing her at last, and had slumped in the leaf litter against the stone wall at the very back of the cleft, but now struggled drunkenly to her feet, clutching the wall of the crevice for support. She seen nothing of war or true battle before, and although the sheer amount of blood in the air and the sight of guts and mangled limbs covering the ground threatened to turn her stomach, her anxiety for Loki’s safety – warranted or not, drove all thought of such horrors from her mind. For all her weariness she had watched the skirmish progress animated by her anxiety for Loki, which, although somewhat alleviated by the ease with which he had dispatched his opponents, refused to be dispelled entirely.

His ruthlessness both terrified and relieved her, for although she had seen Loki in many forms of anger, he had never been moved to violence. The manner in which he conveyed himself now however, was a complete other side to him that she had never even guessed at. For all the savagery of it, however, Káta could not deny the beauty of his movements, and had he not been dealing death with every blow, she would have admired the grace and skill and strength with which he moved.

She gasped at the sight of the first of the remaining men to advance, a great hulking brute of a man, and although Loki was tall, his height was nothing to that of his new opponent, for the man towered over him by a good three feet. Káta felt sure that the man was no man at all, but had to be a jötunn, such was the sheer enormity of his stature.

The giant wielded a great two-handed sword that would have been the same height as a lesser man, and was as broad in its width as his own boulder-like head. He advanced upon Loki with a bellow that rang in the ears and echoed off the stony walls, lifting the great weapon high.

Loki had known at a glance that a single blow from that sword would shear right through both of his own, for the weapons he possessed were neither magical nor extraordinary as Thor’s Mjölnir was. Cunning was his only weapon against such a foe, and so he spun on the spot, replicating himself as he did so, and when he halted eight images of himself spread out in a semicircle facing the monstrously sized man, each animated with its own intelligence.

Confused, his adversary growled stupidly, and swung at the nearest of the copies. It ducked and slashed at his side, while three others needled his unguarded back. He let out a roar of anger, and swiped viciously at them like a bear at bees, each of them dodging. Loki knew he was facing no jötunn, for although they came in many shapes and sizes he had fought and killed enough of them to know when he was fighting one. This man was merely a giant, his viciousness and strength multiplied along with his size, but stupid. Jötnar, whatever else they might be, were not as a rule unintelligent.

Howling with inarticulate rage, the giant continued to swing his great sword back and forth, its length such that its edge scraped along the narrow walls of the pass, screeching as it sent up great cindering trails of sparks and gouging deep furrows into the stone. Pebbles rained down with a patter like spilt blood, and Káta shielded herself with her arms as a shower of stones the size of lemons flew her way.

Loki and his copies all dodged the simplistic attacks, circling him, the copies darting in every now and then to strike a blow before nipping out of range once more. The strikes did little damage to brute, Loki knew that he was too huge for them to be any more than a mere annoyance, but he hoped to hassle his aggressor into an even less thinking state (if such as possible), and strike him a fatal blow while unguarded with his rage.

The giant swung again, and this time his blade caught one of the doubles, and the image shattered into a thousand spinning fragments of disintegrating light. With a grunt of primitive satisfaction, he set about trying to destroy as many of the images as possible and whittle down his antagonists.

Loki knew he had to work quickly now if his plan was to work at all, but the brute was determinedly set about his task, the knowledge held in his tiny brain and the power it gave him terrifying to behold.

In a few minutes only three of Loki’s doppelgängers remained. The four of them stood together with their swords raised and ready, facing their oncoming foe.

The giant tossed aside his monstrosity of a sword with an eye watering clanging of steel, and leapt at the group of them, his arms spread wide.

Realising in the few milliseconds afforded him what would happen, Loki attempted to dive out of the way, but the brute’s burly arms crashed through the nearest image and encircled Loki before he made it two paces.

The brute’s momentum was such that Loki was pulled the ground instantaneously, and then crushed underneath his enormous weight. Loki was used to wrestling with Thor, who was enormous by any person’s standards, but that was nothing to the man now squashing him, and even the experience that he _did_ have felt severely inadequate.

Loki felt his ribcage straining to withstand the immense weight now bearing down on it, alarm chilling his blood as he sensed it beginning to collapse. He struggled to draw breath, his bones creaking and threatening to give way under the strain, fighting with all his might to wriggle out from under his adversary as he poured seiðr into strengthening his bones to prevent them from snapping under the pressure they now faced.

Káta watched, horrified as Loki and the giant scrapped on the bloody ground. The giant had pushed his chest up off the squashed god now, and was pummelling him ruthlessly. The first blow broke Loki’s nose with a spray of blood, even though it had only been a glancing strike, and the next cracked the stone below into gravel as Loki managed to dodge it. She felt about the rippled edges of the crevice walls, and found a few of the fallen stones that fit nicely into her palm, and quickly took them up, hurling them with all the strength she could muster at the back and shoulders of the man. She might as well have dropped water droplets on him for all the notice he took of them. They struck him and bounced off as harmlessly as pebbles.

Loki fought to gather his legs up underneath his opponent, and kicked with all his might, managing to push the brute back a foot for the briefest of moments. He seized his opportunity and wriggled out eel-like from underneath the giant, whose reaching arms closed on thin air, and turned, leaping onto the man’s back as he drew a dagger from his boot, and thrusting it through the giant’s back under his left shoulder blade up to the hilt.

The brute bellowed, at last seeming to feel pain, but the blow, which ought to have signalled his death, seemed to be no more than a deep wound. Dismayed, Loki clung onto the dagger’s hilt for grip as the giant rose up, his arms reaching clumsily around, trying to grab Loki and pull him off. The struggles and Loki’s weight on the dagger drew it down, severing a large band of back muscles and a couple of ribs, until the knife twisted and got stuck in a bone, and the brute’s left arm seemed to lose some of its strength.

A new plan coming to his mind, Loki wrapped his left arm around the man’s bull-like neck, hanging on for dear life and attempting to crush as much of his breath out of him as his right hand felt for a spare dagger with which to sever the rest of the brute’s muscles. If he could hamstring him, he could kill him.

Kata watched as the giant rampaged about the small space, roaring with pain and fury, even more dangerous now than before because of them, slamming his back into the stone sides of the crevice with such force that he nearly succeeded in removing Loki, who yelled with pain as his bones and body were crushed. Then Loki was knocked off, falling heavily to the ground and rolling and tumbling along, gathering bloody leaves with him as he went, until he hit the far wall with a groan, and the brute fell on him, his hands reaching for the god’s unguarded throat.

Dazed, Loki barely had time to register what was happening about him, his hands shooting up to seize the giant’s by the wrists, just managing to deflect his fingers from their intended target.

Desperate to help, Káta gazed about, and as Loki and the man’s struggle continued one of the dropped swords of the dead men skittered across the stones towards her. Káta knew that for all his skill, Loki would not be able to outmatch the giant in sheer brute strength, and that something had to be done before the monster’s hands reached Loki’s throat and crushed the breath and life out of him.

She rushed forwards, and the others across the cleft noticed, the leader screeching an order that she couldn’t discern. One man removed a bow from his back and strung it, quickly nocking an arrow to the string.

Káta just had time to duck down as the first arrow whistled overhead, its fletching just catching a few strands of her tangled hair, rolling through the gory leaves and snatching up the sword, springing back to her feet and rushing forwards.

Loki saw the attack launched on Káta from the corner of his eye, and redoubled his struggles, trying to escape the crushing grip of his opponent even as he evaded the attempts to grasp his throat. A dozen doppelgängers appeared and set to trying to heave the giant off him, but he ignored their every effort, their swords glancing off his back, for the images could only inflict the lightest of damage and even that was a severe drain on Loki’s energy. Distracted and muddled from the sudden drop in his energy and concentration, Loki got rid of them, searching for Káta as best he could, for she had disappeared from his vision.

Káta had briefly taken shelter in a curve of the rock face, but now darted away from it, a second arrow just missing her by inches as she flew out into the open, risking everything as the giant’s hands finally closed about Loki’s throat. She let out a cry of terror, Loki’s desperate eyes meeting hers, each more concerned about the other’s safety than their own, he trying to warn her away, she frantic to save him.

Káta stumbled as an arrow glanced across her thigh, its tip slicing a cut across her skin, but it was the lightest of flesh wounds, and she ran on, skidding across the blood soaked leaves to where Loki lay, crushed and gasping for air beneath the giant.

The man was too intent upon strangling Loki to notice her presence, and his back was presented neatly to her. She slid to a stop behind him, lifting the sword high in both hands, and plunged it into the wound Loki’s dagger had already made, shearing through what remained of the muscle and bone, through his back and into his heart, the tip pushing out through his chest. Triumph sang in her heart, even as the whirr of an arrow buzzed towards her, and then Káta was aware of a sudden piercing pain in her side.

She did not have time to reflect on the aching sting spreading out from her waist however, for the brute let out a great roar of enraged pain, releasing Loki, whose face had begun to turn from red to purple, the edges of his eyes red from burst capillaries, and turned, his arms flung out. One cannoned into Káta on her injured right side, the clout sending her flying back towards the end of the crevice.

She struck the stone in an explosion of pain, her head cracking against it, and her vision was temporarily turned to white. When she was next able to see, everything was turned on one side, and she was lying crumpled on the ground, the salty taste of blood on her tongue which she now realised she had bitten, and a sticky something oozing from the side of her head down across her scalp. She righted herself with difficulty and looked down, her head spinning, regarding with faint confusion the scarlet head of the arrow head sticking out from her side, just above her right hip, blood dripping from its tip. Her blood.

There was a bellow ringing in her ears, and when she looked towards Loki, her vision fuzzy at the edges with ripples of pain, his mouth was wide open, his expression transformed into one of utmost horror, half risen from the ground.

She tried to say something, her heart aching at the sight of his expression, but her lips were too numb to move, and darkness was beginning to cloud her eyes as she slid sideways once more, the swiftly darkening sky all she could see.

Loki wanted only to go to Káta. He knew that nine times out of ten blood loss was more fatal than any wound, and he had to heal her as soon as possible. Heedless of the air his body was still gratefully gulping in, and incensed with a new rage, he rushed at the remaining men, eyes red as one of Hel’s minions, swords in hand once more, lopping off the head of the kneeling giant as he passed. Daggers secreted about his person flew, and the bowman fell, his body pinned with eleven of the blades, blood and life gurgling from his mouth.

The next rushed forwards, a spear in his hands, and made a lunge at Loki who curved out of the way of the spearhead, although it tore through the tails of his tunic. Turning he slashed through the pole of the spear, the wood fracturing beneath the force of his stroke in an explosion of splinters and wood powder, rendering it all but useless, and then executed the same result upon the man’s body, so that his arm parted company from his torso at the shoulder mere seconds before his head from his neck.

Loki turned towards the leader, who had become paralysed with fear when the giant had been struck down. He had barely lifted his sword in an attempt to protect himself before Loki sent it spinning from his weak hand with a single blow.

“Mercy!” the man croaked, his voice taken by the same fear that had wet his trousers.

Loki regarded him with an expression of disgust, and it was bare seconds before the last of his bloody work was done.

He did not wait for the headless corpse to topple to the ground; he was already turning, his swords falling from his fingers with a sound of clanging of steel as he dashed to Káta. She was lying inert in a puddle of her own blood, and he flung himself down on the ground beside her, cradling her in his arms, holding her face in his hands.

“It’s ok. I’ve got you now,” he whispered, trying more to convince himself and his anxiously hammering heart than her, scooping her up into his arms, and standing in a single swift movement. Káta’s eyelids flickered faintly for the briefest of moments, a golden sliver of her eyes visible for a second, fixed hazily on him. “You’re going to be all right. I promise, I promise,” he panted, then her eyes rolled back once more, and were shut.

 

A moment later they were below his chambers in his bathing rooms. He laid her tenderly on the floor, his anxieties escalating at her descent back into unconsciousness.

“Come on, Káta, wake up!” he hissed, taking her by the face, terror thudding in his heart. He gave her a shake. “Wake up, _wake up!_ ”

Káta shifted a little, her eyelids fluttering. “You’re squishing my cheeks, Loki…” she muttered.

Loki let out a hiccup of disbelief, not quite able to laugh, but relaxed his hands a little.

Káta’s lips twitched in a faint smile, her eyes wrinkling as she slowly opened them. Then sensibility of the situation seemed to dawn on her, and they flooded with anxiety. “ _Loki!_ ” she jerked up suddenly with a gasp of urgency that quickly changed to pain, her eyes locking onto his as he caught and steadied her. “Are you ok? The fight…” her eyes wandered distractedly over him, checking for any sign of serious injury, but even if she had been in full possession of her faculties it would have been difficult to tell exactly who the blood covering him belonged to. “Your eyes.” She frowned, distracted, and tried to lift a hand.

Loki’s face crumpled with bewildered astonishment. How in Valhalla could she be asking _him_ if he was all right, wounded as she was? “Don’t worry about them,” he muttered, waving a dismissive hand, and instantly healing the ruptured vessels in them – he had no desire to distress Káta any further. “I’m fine,” he soothed, cupping her cheek gently. “Just a few cuts and bruises; it’s nothing.”

She continued to study him a few moments longer, searching for the truth in his eyes, before her anxiety faded and she subsided back into his arms with a groaning sigh of pain. “Good.”

He lurched in fear as her eyelids fluttered dangerously once more, and she jolted sharply back into lucidness with a gasp of pain.

“Sorry.”

“Am I dying?” she whispered. “It hurts…”

“Don’t be stupid,” Loki spat, laying her carefully back down. “You’re not allowed to.”

Káta let out a weak chuckle, then stopped, frowning as she let out a little moan of pain. “I don’t think…even you…can bring people…back from the dead, Loki,” she said in a laboured murmur.

“You are _not_ dying,” he reiterated irately, “you’re just badly injured.” Loki turned to the sticky red flower of blood at her front. “You promised me you would never leave,” he muttered as he worked, tearing open the fabric of her dress and examining the wound. It was black with congealed blood, the exit point shredded by the four pronged arrow head, and a single glance told him it had gone through at least part of her right kidney. “Remember?”

Káta smiled weakly, panting wheezily. “I remember.”

“Well stick to your word,” he said brusquely, turning her slightly to see that the back half of the arrow shaft had shattered away under the impact of her fall, restraining a hiss of displeasure, and tidying the splintered end as best he could.

“It hardly seems you’ll let me do otherwise,” Káta murmured dryly, going to laugh once more, but halting as her breath hitched with pain.

Loki eyed her crossly. “Stop being flippant.”

“No,” Káta murmured, even more softly than before, “that’s your job, isn’t it.”

Loki made no reply, just frowned. “It’s not funny.”

“Sorry,” Káta replied in a contrite whisper.

“I…I couldn’t live without you,” Loki admitted softly, his eyes fixed on Káta’s wound as he continued to examine it, the situation drawing the truth from his lips as nothing else had. “I wouldn’t be me…I _can’t_ be me without you. There is no me without us anymore.”

Káta’s expression softened, and with a great deal of effort she reached up, turning Loki’s gore splattered face towards hers. “For what it’s worth, neither could I,” she whispered, “neither would I.”

A mixture of delight and joy sprang into Loki’s eyes, and neither of them moved for a long moment as a kind of ecstatic realisation cascaded down over them. All that had lain unspoken between them for what felt like an eternity was suddenly acknowledged; suddenly admitted, without the slightest moment of fear for the consequences, in the most wonderful of releases. Loki’s heart felt too full all of a sudden, the feelings rushing through him momentarily eclipsing all else, and Káta felt all her pain swept away, flushed out by sheer happiness.

Then Loki was suddenly business-like, turning back to the arrow. “Right. This is going to hurt.”

“It already does,” Káta replied, grinning slightly.

Loki ignored her, and her grin changed abruptly to a grimace of pain as he carefully drew the damaged shaft out of her, a groan coming from her lips. He tossed it aside with a clatter. “That’s the worst over.” He placed his hand lightly over the open wound, Káta shivering involuntarily with pain at his touch, and healed it.

Káta let out a hiss at the peculiar feeling of her muscles and flesh writhing and re-knitting itself under Loki’s seiðr, her pulse suddenly stronger as her lost blood was replenished with a new flow rushing into her veins, but the sensation was soon gone.

“Better?”

“Better,” Káta sighed. “Much better.”

Loki smiled for the first time. The colour had already returned to her face, and her breathing had evened out. “Wait here a moment.” He got up and crossed to a silver wash basin and pitcher on a stand across the room, and filled the bowl with water, soaking the wash cloth beside, and bringing the dripping cloth back.

Káta watched him from her position on the floor, wriggling about to get a better view, unwilling to let him out of her sight.

“Lie still,” Loki chided her, his tone gentler now that his fears were assuaged. He knelt by her, and supported her head with one hand as he dabbed at the sticky mass of blood of her head wound, Káta flinching and hissing slightly.

Once it was clean, Loki healed the scrape, and then picked Káta up once more. “Where are we going?” she asked, relaxing into his arms, at peace for the first time since the ordeal had begun, as waves of sleepy weariness began to wash over her, subduing all thought, and saturating her mind and body.

“ _You_ are going to have a bath,” Loki said sternly. He turned towards the huge sunken bowl in the centre of the room, and with a flick of his head it began to fill with water, steam rising off the surface like mist.

“You have hot springs up here?” Káta asked sleepily, her head muzzy with the heavy clouds of her exhaustion.

“Hush,” Loki murmured, bending over, and gently sliding her into the water.

Káta leant back, her head resting against the edge and pillowed on a flannel Loki provided, the heat seeping into her limbs and starting to work on her aches, easing the residual tension in her muscles. Compared to the comfort the water provided, the stings of the various small cuts and grazes all up her legs and down her arms were nothing.

“I’ll be back soon.”

Káta struggled to turn around to see Loki, who was standing now. “You’re leaving?” she asked plaintively, her desire for his presence helping to override her exhaustion as she turned to meet his eyes.

Loki smiled. “There is yet work to do. I won’t be long. You have my word.”

“I will hold you to it,” she muttered with weak determination, her expression somewhere between deliriousness and utter weariness even as she turned away and relaxed further into the water.

His smile widening at her tenacity, Loki shook his head slightly. “I would expect nothing less.” He turned, crossing to the door, and was nearly there when her voice came to him in the faintest of sleepy murmurs.

“Sólfríðr...”

Loki nodded. “I’ll take care of her,” he whispered. His hand was on the door knob, Káta having already slipped back into semi-consciousness, when she spoke again.

“Why did you take so long to come?” her question was without blame, but as she neared the edge of unconsciousness, some sea of emotion in her slipped out, the words spoken in such broken tones that Loki could not help the wave of guilt that washed over him. “You’re never late.”

He remained where he stood, rigid. “I was forcibly detained,” he murmured, a hint of his anger with the Allfather creeping into his tone.

“By Odin,” Káta muttered tiredly, the slightest of frowns making its way to her face, and her eyes opening a little wider with a flash of anger, correctly guessing that Loki had been castigated once more.

Loki felt her anger without needing to see her expression, and released from his arrest, he appeared kneeling by her side once more. “Hush,” he replied. “None of that matters anymore – it will never matter anymore. Don’t think of me.”

Káta snorted faintly. “Like I could not,” she muttered, her head tilting in the direction of his voice, her eyes at last shut.

Loki smiled faintly, brushing a curl of her hair back from her face, and disappeared.

 

He reappeared in the gully and swiftly picked through the carnage, finding his swords and wiping them clean on the clothing of the butchered corpses, and retrieving his various daggers and sheathing them.

Then he began the far more grisly business of hunting through the mess of decapitated corpses and lopped limbs in the search of some hint that might tell him who had sent them after Káta. Their clothes were of rough cloth, their weapons not always in a good condition, and they carried nothing that he considered to be of value. He knew within seconds that they were just another motley band of mercenaries for hire, and that there would be no way of his tracing who had engaged them. Such people were hardly meticulous when it came to paperwork.

Their congealing blood turning his hands sticky, he disappeared; they would not be missed. The bodies he left for the crows.

 

It took him a little longer to locate Káta’s mare, and he had spent a good half hour combing the fringes of the forest before he finally came across her.

She seemed to recognise him, for she approached him with a friendly whinny, although her ears turned to lie flat along her skull as she caught scent of the blood and gore that still splattered his clothing. She snorted uneasily, but allowed him to approach and take her by the bridle, murmuring reassuring words, before the pair of them disappeared to her stables at Mærsalr.

 

*

 

Káta lay in the water, the blood on her body and clothing slowly seeping out so that all around her there was a reddish brown cloud. As her weariness faded and the pain subsided, the terror of her flight and the horror of the battle began to return to her, flashing images of branches whipping past, catching and snagging her and flying blood filling her mind, so that she lurched back into wakefulness with a cry of relived fear. The steamy air was thick with the rusty tang of the blood seeping out of her clothes and off her body, and even though most of it was her own she could still feel her bile rising.

The horror of the situation she had been in cascaded over her like a waterfall, taking her breath from her, leaving her sitting gasping in water which now felt far too cold. She shivered, the tremble at first a small one starting in her shoulders, until it began to quickly travel down and overtake her entire body, so that she was shuddering uncontrollably, the water about her in constant movement. Her teeth chattered from the force of her motion, the sound echoing around the room, her skin like goose flesh, and she curled up tightly, drawing her knees to her chest, her arms wrapped around herself, trying to hold herself together and prevent the chill that was settling in her soul. A hiccupping sob escaped her lips. She wanted Loki now, more than ever before. She _needed_ him.

 

*

 

Loki reappeared in his rooms, and for the first time caught sight of himself in his dressing mirror. He was splattered with blood from head to foot, slivers of flesh and shredded skin clinging to his armour and clothing. He vanished the gore, not wishing to force Káta to see yet more that day, and carefully took his armour off, at last beginning to feel the aches and pains from his injuries.

He summoned a full wash basin to a nearby stand, and immersed his hands in it, sluicing off the blood in watery sheets. The water was crimson before he had finished, and he replaced it anew, continuing to scrub at his hands until every trace of blood had been erased from the pores and lines of his skin, and around the cuticles of his nails.

At last they were clean, although there was still some residue under his nails that he couldn’t quite scrape out, and the metallic stink remained. He perfumed the water, and soaked his hands in it a while to take away the smell, and then quickly wet a cloth, giving his face a perfunctory wash down, afterwards taking his armour out onto his balcony and sluicing it down with the remaining water, refilling the basin until the rivulets that ran down the metal and across the stone were clear and clean.

Leaving his armour to dry in the sun, he finally crossed to the door that led down to his bathing chambers, pausing briefly before his mirror to examine and heal the already purpling bruises around his neck, before skipping quickly down the spiral stone steps towards Káta.

At the door at the bottom he paused, and knocked.

Silence was his sole reply.

“Káta?” Loki paused and listened intently, wondering whether she had fallen asleep in the water. It had looked like she was heading in that direction when he had left her, and he didn’t blame her. “Káta? Are you awake?”

Still no reply came, so he quietly pushed open the door, peeping in.

Káta sat where he had left her, her knees drawn up to her chin, her arms around them, shivering violently despite the spirals of steam that continued to rise from the water about her. Her wide eyes lifted and met his with a look so entreating it seemed to pierce him to the soul, and his heart understood her.

Káta was too far gone to worry or care about whether it was the right time to ask of Loki what she now did. He loved her, she knew that, and whether he was ready for her love or not, they were both about to find out. She knew somehow that it was now or never; that this was the tipping point.

Loki quickly advanced towards her, and without hesitation stooped and slid into the bath opposite her, his clothes instantly waterlogged, as he carefully moved closer. Káta watched mutely as he reached out, clearing the bloody water from about her before taking a wash cloth from the edge, and dipping it in the clean water, beginning to wipe the blood and dirt from her face.

His touch was gentle and careful, his expression intent upon his task, and she sat silently, her shivering ever lessening, her eyes watching his as they followed his hand about its work.

Once her face was clean, Loki tenderly took Káta’s arms, one after the other, gently unfolding them from their rigid grasp about her knees, and washing the blood and dirt from them, healing her scratches and grazes as he went.

Only the faintest of shivers remained in Káta, deep in her still cold centre, but she reached out, her movement taking Loki by surprise, pulling the wash cloth from his unresisting fingers, and dabbing it in the water, moving to wipe away the last streaks of blood from his face where he had missed them before.

Loki watched her as intently as she had watched him before, and just as Loki had done, Káta did not feel the need to meet his gaze but simply went about her task, ensuring she had wiped away every last trace of blood from his skin.

Finished, she let the cloth fall into the water with a plop, their eyes meeting for the first time. Káta crawled closer to Loki, curling sideways against his chest as Loki wrapped his arms around her, their legs entangled beneath the surface, holding her close.

Thus intertwined, Loki could feel the last deep remnants of Káta’s shivers still shuddering within her, and he brought her closer still, warming her with his presence, and holding her until the very last tremors were driven out altogether.

He summoned a vase; one arm still wrapped around her, and dipped it into the water, filling it. Cradling Káta in his arm like an infant, he tilted her head back, her neck supported in the crook of his elbow, carefully pouring the water from the vase over her hair, the water streaming with blood, sweat, and dirt.

Káta watched him trustingly as he continued to refill the vase and pour the water through her hair, the absolute concentration of his expression so dear to her. As he began to rub cleansing oils into her hair, however, her eyelids grew heavier, the sensation of it soothing her into a delicious half sleep where the nightmares of her day could not stalk her mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I TOLD YOU I WOULDN'T MAKE YOU WAIT 8D Even though I was very tempted to stretch it out a bit further and make the most of that cliff hanger. Ah well, I'll just have to put another one in somewhere else XD
> 
> So. Loki gets a teeny weeny bit violent if you try and kill Káta. I think that's fair. It was a struggle to make sure the fight didn't seem too easy for him, but also so that it wasn't too hard - I mean, he IS a Prince of Asgard, after all. On the whole, I'm very pleased with how it turned out. I really enjoy writing fight scenes - they're heaps of fun, and really test your ability to think outside the box in terms of the choreography and action, depending on the purpose of the fight, of course.  
> AND. OHMYGODOHMYGOD! THEY'VE SORT OF NOT QUITE SAID THAT THEY LOVE EACH OTHER!!!! Well, they've acknowledged their feelings X3 I hope it wasn't too cliched :S I know that sort of scene, those sort of lines, are pretty cheesy, but I did my best to make it not. Fingers crossed that I succeeded.  
> As for Káta's horror (I guess you could call it trauma?) when Loki leaves her alone, I'm still drawing on my own experiences from drowning there. You feel fine for a while, and then it just sails back into you out of nowhere, and you really need some method of cleansing and drawing out the fear and experience.
> 
> Anyway, I think that's about it for this chapter. The next one isn't likely to come up as quickly as this one did, for obvious reasons, but it's probably just as well. After this chapter it's time to start gearing up for the ascent to the next plot climax. :)  
> I hope you enjoyed it :D
> 
> Please give Kudos and/or comment :) Tell me what you like or don’t like :) Questions and speculations are always welcome :D As is incomprehensible flailing if that's what you go in for :)  
> Also, if you like this story, or any of my other ones, and you want access to sneak previews on chapters that I'm working on, you can Like my Facebook page, and Follow my Twitter or Tumblr :)  
> https://www.facebook.com/josephinetomkinsauthor  
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	45. Protection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Loki and Káta deal with the wake of the attack, intimacies cannot help but arise, bringing with them their own problems.

When Loki had at last finished, Káta woke from her doze, and blinked at him with eyes that were refreshed and contained a little more of their usual spark. The light in them had dulled in the aftermath of the attack, and seeing it rekindled eased some of the worries in Loki’s heart.

He left Káta with a clean dress to put on and an enormous towel to dry herself with, going upstairs to his room to give her some privacy. As he towelled himself dry, wringing the water from his hair, he thought over what his next course of action ought to be. There were still many things to be taken care of – avenues of investigation to be followed up on, people to be found; but Káta took precedence above them all. Her safety was paramount.

The light had already begun to fade beyond the windows, the sky now awash with lilac and powder blue with only the faintest hint of apricot remaining, despite the fact that it had been only several hours after midday when he had returned. He summoned a simple meal to the empty table in the corner, and lit a fire in the grate, aware that Káta would probably be starving now that she had gotten over the majority of her shock.

Káta came up from below, padding barefoot across the stone floors, smiling at Loki as he turned to meet her in a way that made him catch his breath.

“Are you –?” Loki did not get to finish his question, the answer to it interrupting him in the form of an audible rumble from Káta’s tummy.

She clutched it with a half embarrassed grin, and Loki smiled softly. “Sorry.”

“You _are_ hungry then. Here,” he gestured to the table and food, and Káta quickly settled herself down, eating ravenously.

Loki had guessed she would do as such, and had only supplied the lightest of meals, aware that anything too rich could make Káta sick after such an experience. There was a small bowl of various berries, a clear broth, and a dish of seasoned and roasted vegetables accompanied by a little gravy, a soft loaf of bread still warm from the oven and a crock of butter to go with it.

Loki had little appetite himself, although he ought to have been starving, for his mind was still preoccupied with a thousand whizzing questions regarding the attack, and what would happen once Káta had finished eating.

He picked unenthusiastically at the heel of the bread, barely eating the crumbs that he pulled off. He did not want to send Káta back to Mærsalr tonight; it was too dangerous. Her room was unprotected, and even at the very top of the hall, with him present all through the night, he scarcely entertained the thought. His entire being rebelled against it.

Káta paused in the relay of soup between the bowl and her mouth, her eyes on Loki as he brooded. “You’re not eating.”

Loki blinked, surfacing from his thoughts, and looked at her, and then down at his plate, which was empty but for a shower of bread crumbs from the slice that he had picked to pieces.

“Here.” Káta took his plate, and went out to the balcony, dusting all the crumbs off and returning back to the table as a little flock of birds fluttered down and began pecking up the tiny morsels.

She set his plate back in front of him, and began filling it. When she was done she sat back down and looked at him expectantly.

“You should eat, Loki.”

He pursed his lips, and frowned. “I don’t feel hungry.”

“All the more reason to eat,” Káta replied quickly with a faint smile.

Loki gave her a flat look.

“Very well. I won’t eat either.” Káta sat back in her chair, pushing her half eaten meal away from her, folding her arms firmly.

Loki frowned. “Don’t be silly; you need to eat.”

“So do you,” Káta countered sternly.

Loki’s frown deepened into an expression of exasperation, his eyes shifting between her stubborn expression and his full plate. “Fine.” Mulishly he took up his spoon, and ate a mouthful. “Happy?”

“Yes,” Káta smiled, reaching for her own food.

Loki shook his head and couldn’t help the faint grin pulling at the corner of his mouth. Káta was something else. Now that he had begun to eat properly, his appetite returned, and he soon began to eat with a gusto equal to Káta’s.

Between them they finished all the food, washing it down with a little mead, by which time Káta was more than ready for bed, her head heavy.

Loki was staring moodily at the last sip of mead that had collected at the bottom of his glass, rolling the cup around on its base as he thought about just how little he wanted to let Káta leave.

“Can I…can I stay here tonight?”

Loki looked up at the tentative question, his expression transformed into one of astonishment.

Káta blushed. “I…I don’t want to be alone,” she murmured, a flicker of relived fear crossing her face for the first time. “I don’t want you to go.”

Loki was not sure what impulse had overtaken him, but before he had even begun to realise what was happening, he had risen from his chair, crossed to Káta, and taken her in his arms, holding her close.

Her arms slid about him, holding him tightly, her hands pressing into his back, and he could feel her relaxing against him, even as he did against her.

“I won’t leave you,” he whispered against her hair. Káta’s arms tightened about him a little more. “Ever.”

After a little, they released each other, and Káta crossed to his bed, crawling into and curling up tight under the furs.

Loki hovered, not quite sure what to do with himself until Káta’s voice came to him, muffled under the covers.

“It’s cold…” she whispered, and he could see her shivering, even underneath the furs.

He slid in beside her, and Káta instantly cuddled up to him, her head resting on his shoulder, his arm holding her close.

Warmth quickly grew between them, and Káta was asleep in moments, carried away into unconsciousness by her exhaustion. Loki remained awake, however, concerns prowling his mind.

Káta let out a sleepy little murmur, snuggling in a little nearer, and Loki turned a little to hold her closer, only half aware of how well they fit together. He stayed there the whole night, awake and vigilant, warmed outside and in by the girl slumbering in his arms.

 

Káta awoke with a start, flying bolt upright. She stared wildly around at her surroundings, her mind racing to figure out where she was until she began to recognise the objects about her, the previous night’s recollections returning to her.

She took in a deep, steadying breath, and relaxed a little.

Judging by the light filling the chamber it was at least midday, and the bed was only warm where she lay, the rest of it cold. She glanced about.

“Loki?” her voice echoed through the chambers, and from the stillness she received in answer, she knew she was alone.

Her anxieties rising once more, Káta slipped from the bed, and moved through the silent rooms, searching. Her heart beating quickly, she thought of all the places that Loki might be, and rushed from his chambers and out into his ever silent hall, her footsteps echoing as she ran to the doors that would take her out into the rest of Valhalla, meaning to go out and search the corridors for him if need be, despite the fact that she was wearing only a thin sleeping shift.

The doors, which had opened at her lightest touch before, now refused her every effort. They were sealed.

Confusion and speculation starting to overtake her mind in place of panic, she returned to Loki’s main chambers, and crossed to his desk, wondering whether her suspicions could be accurate.

Waiting for her under Loki’s half of the pair of wooden birds was a note written in Loki’s familiar hand.

 

_I shall return in three days. I have sealed my Hall against entry until I return; only my mother or father could break the enchantments and I do not expect their intrusion. They will think I am absent from Valhalla when they find the doors locked._

_Food and drink will appear for you regularly. Amuse yourself as best you can, try and make yourself at home; my possessions are at your disposal, as ever._

_Stay safe. Please._

_Loki_

 

Káta returned to the bed, still holding the note, and slid back in under the covers, turning her face into the pillow. It was still rich with Loki’s scent, and she drew strength from the familiar fresh piney smell. He would be back in three days. She could manage that, surely.

But part of Káta’s heart was stubbornly refuting that thought. She wanted Loki with her here, now. Or if not that, then to be with him wherever he was. She wanted to rest in his arms, safe and secure. Nothing else mattered.

But evidently something else did, and she wondered over what it was that might be so important as to warrant his leaving her now. It had to be something to do with yesterday. She knew enough of Loki and his overprotectiveness (which, given events, now seemed to be entirely warranted, and a highly desirable level of protectiveness) to know that nothing else could have made him budge from her side at such a time. Káta curled up a little tighter as a shiver shuddered through her at the memory, turning her skin to gooseflesh and raising the hair all over her body. It was all too fresh to think of.

Pulling the furs up closer around her shoulders, she buried her face deeper into the pillow, immersing herself in Loki’s scent, and pushing the dark thoughts away.

 

The days passed faster than she had expected. Loki’s shelves were stocked with plenty of volumes that she had yet to read, and Káta began to work her way through them with varying success. True to Loki’s word, platters of food and pitchers of mead and water appeared for her at regular intervals, and when she was finished would disappear once more. At times she wondered over where it was that Loki had gone, and what he was doing, but her pragmatism came to the rescue and prevented her from dwelling on that which she could not know.

Unable to leave, but yearning for company, Káta took to crumbling up her bread and scattering the crumbs on the balcony, chatting to the little birds that came to gather up the food. Some of them sang sweet little songs to her, and they eased the loneliness of her solitude, reminding her of Loki with their antics.

Despite her avian friends, and the multitude of books at her disposal, Káta could not help but feel restless. She knew that nothing except Loki’s company would dispel the dissatisfied itch that made her pace his rooms and scale the pillars of his dining hall as she discarded book after book while she waited. The knowledge did little to help her pass the time, however.

 

At long last the third day came, and as the sun set Loki returned. He appeared in the middle of the room, dressed for travelling, startling Káta from the book she was trying to focus on reading. He had crossed to her before she had even set the book down, taking her gently by the shoulders.

“You’re ok,” he murmured, pulling her close.

Káta blinked in surprise at the suddenness of the gesture, but held Loki tightly. Being in his arms felt like a homecoming that she had long waited for. “Yes, I’m ok. Are you?” she pulled back to look into his face, concerned.

Loki looked as though he had not slept all the while he had been away, and he hadn’t. Despite the bracelet, he could not stop himself from fretting every moment he was away from Káta, and longing to return to her side, his desire to see her growing with every passing hour. His task was of the utmost importance, however, and he had forced himself to think of the greater good that it would achieve.

“You haven’t slept.”

“I’m fine,” Loki said reassuringly, feasting his eyes on the sight of her, all his worries easing.

Káta cocked a characteristically disbelieving eyebrow at him. The expression reassured him; despite all she had been through, she was still the same Káta he knew. His Káta. The thought at once astonished and pleased Loki. _His Káta._

“All right, so I haven’t slept.” He admitted.

Káta smiled, glad that he wasn’t in denial, eyeing the incurable little grin that seemed to be hanging around the corner of his mouth with faint interest. “Well you can now, come on.” She took his hands, and half skipped half pulled him over to his bed, leaping onto it and rolling into the now familiar furs. “Early to bed, and then sleeping in.”

Loki sat on the edge, rather more sedately, his mind slightly off kilter from the sight of Káta in his bed thus.

Káta tutted as she sat up, her hair a wild tangle and oblivious of Loki’s thoughts.

“Still too civilised for you?” he asked with a smile.

Káta grinned and nodded. “Far too civilised.”

Loki shook his head in amusement. “I hope you haven’t been too bored?” he asked, glancing around his chambers. Evidence of Káta’s distraction littered the rooms in the form of most of his books scattered over every available surface, as well as a number of sketches covering his desk which had all been begun, but stopped less than halfway towards being finished. She was not as messy as him when in such a state, but Loki could see it all the same. He grinned.

Káta pouted a little. “Not so much bored, more…impatient.” She smiled shyly.

Her smile spoke to the impatient part of his own heart, and Loki nodded. “I know the feeling.” He reached into a pocket, and drew something out. “I have something for you.”

Káta crawled closer in curiosity, and Loki held out his hand on the palm of which lay a golden ring. It was finely wrought and set with a perfectly polished cabochon of lightning-veined amber, its band ringed with the same runes repeated over and over, the words forming interlocking patterns. _Ásja_ ; protection. She looked up from the ring to meet Loki’s eyes. “This is why you were away?”

Loki nodded. “I went to your uncles, the Sons of Ivaldi.” Káta’s eyes widened in astonishment. She had heard of her uncles briefly from her mother, and knew of their craftsmanship, but had never thought that she would ever bear something of their creation. “They know it’s for you, and they made it for your hand and your hand alone.”

Loki took the ring, and slid it onto the fourth finger of Káta’s left hand. It fitted perfectly; neither tight nor loose. The amber seemed to glow. Loki regarded the ring for a moment.

“It is called Véurr. It will protect you from most harms,” he said solemnly. “I bound it with seiðr myself, and the gold is from a nugget found in the roots of Yggdrasil, bearing the World Tree’s blessing. The amber –”

“– is from my mother’s first apple tree.” Káta finished, looking up into Loki’s surprised expression with a gentle smile. “I can feel it,” she said in reply to his unspoken question. “How did you get it?”

“I had to convince the dryads to let me.”

Káta grinned. “You’re braver than most,” she glanced down at the ring once more, “and apparently very persuading.”

Loki smiled. “One would hope so.”

Káta gazed at Loki, wondering over the lengths he was willing to go. She smiled, wrapping her arms around him and whispering into his neck, “Thank you.”

 

Káta spent what remained of that day and later the night with Loki, insisting that he went to sleep at once. The next morning, however, she returned to Mærsalr.

Loki, for all the protection Véurr bestowed upon her, and despite the fact that he knew exactly where she was, continued to be unhappy with the arrangement, however, as no form of reassurance bettered that of seeing Káta with his own eyes. He was returned to a state similar to that which had possessed him before he had made Káta the bracelet, and was in a constant state of worry about her, impatient for when he would next be with her.

He took to spending nights watching over her once more, although as the days and weeks dragged on he returned sleeping propped against the wall as he had done in months past, preferring to spend as much time as possible with her, and dissatisfied with stolen hours which passed all too quickly fitted in around his duties. His anxieties evaporated the moment they were near each other, and rest would follow soon after.

At times he would start into wakefulness, twitching where he lay for a few minutes, tormented by nightmares, both old and new. The old he had grown used to, he could deal with them better, but the new ones, _they_ terrified him. Images of Káta being attacked and pursued, Káta bloodied and defenceless, Káta alone and at the mercy of her captors tormented him through the night, and the fear of his being unable to reach her was an ever present terror that loomed over his head.

Each time Loki would wake, panting and sweating, wild with fear, his eyes flying to Káta’s bed to be reassured of her presence by the faint glow she cast against the wall. He knew that such thoughts were senseless to dwell upon, but Loki found himself unable to drive them from his mind. He had discontentedly resigned himself to the fact that he would probably never know who it was that had sent the mercenaries after Káta, but the terror remained.

He knew the attack still played on Káta’s mind as well as his own. There were times when he looked at her and saw her immersed in her own memories and thoughts, her expression of frozen fear heart-breaking, all the more so because he couldn’t fix it. He couldn’t protect her from her own thoughts and the fears that now lived in her mind, the best he could do was try to assuage them in during the waking hours, but at times even that was not enough.

There were moments when, before he himself fell asleep, he would see her, possessed by nightmares of her own, trembling fearfully beneath her blankets, her eyes restlessly flickering beneath their lids as the occasional whimper or groan escaped her lips. At such times he could not bear his own powerlessness, and would sit by her side stroking her brow, heedless of waking her or being discovered, calming and gentling her until the fears faded from her mind, and she slipped back into soothing sleep.

The night terrors tired them both. The time they spent together in the day was mostly lazy – resting side by side or in each other’s arms, reading books, or listening to the music Loki could enchant musical instruments to play – and if Loki was called away by his duties – which Káta would insist he attended to, despite Loki’s long and vociferous objections – he would bring Káta to his rooms.

Despite the safety of Loki’s rooms, however, Káta could not help sometimes being overcome by relived terror, and at such moments, Loki would instantaneously reappear by her side, cradling her in his arms and wiping the tears from her cheeks as he murmured to her, waiting until the fear had passed. Such moments reinforced Loki’s adamant objections to their being parted while he executed his duties, but Káta was equally forceful on the matter, insisting that the attacks would fade with time.

For her part, Káta attempted to gain better control over the terrors, learning how to quell them as quickly as possible, for her own peace of mind, as well as Loki’s, but her efforts were not always successful. Regulating her breathing, deepening and slowing it until she could reach a peaceful state of meditation was helpful, but couldn’t stop the terrors alone, and she soon came to use the memory of Loki appearing, and the sensation of his arms closing around her as a shield to ward off the bad memories.

The idea of enlisting Thor’s help had crossed Loki’s mind at such times, but that would have involved relating the story, and it was not something that wanted repeating. What was more, watching over Káta was his job, and much as Thor’s presence might have eased his concerns about Káta’s safety, Loki knew that he could never be happy with such an arrangement.

Káta did her best not to let on her worries to Loki, knowing that he was already concerned for her, and that that was more than enough for him to cope with. His protectiveness, when before it had been unwarranted and sweet, was now something that she relied upon, and it reassured her to know that he was nearly always a few steps away.

At nights she missed his presence, however, and the memory of sleeping in his arms, and waking to see his face on the pillow beside her was a sweet torment. She longed to return to such an arrangement, but was reluctant to push him too far too fast, especially when he was already tensely wound. She could tell that the unresolved issue of who had sent her attackers ate at him, despite the fact that he denied brooding over it, but she knew his nature, and he was not one to relinquish such a matter lightly.

 

There came a night when Káta found herself suddenly awake, as though something had called out to her, bringing her from sleep. She had not been plagued by any of her usual nightmares, and so woke unusually refreshed, curious as to the reason for her sudden consciousness.

The answer soon became apparent to her, however, for a pitiful sound from her right made her turn her head, and her eyes fell upon Loki. Káta could do little more than sit in shock for a few moments. Loki was asleep, propped against her wall atop one of her clothes chests, and she could tell that it was not new to him. A wretched mewling kind of whimper was coming from his mouth in fits and starts, his chest heaving with the fear of his nightmare. He was curled up on himself, squeezed into a tiny ball as though for protection, and his terror and vulnerability wrenched at her heart.

She quickly crossed to him, scared to wake him for fear that she might make things worse, but reluctant to let his horrors continue to terrorise him. She put out a hand trying to stroke him, to calm him, but he flinched from her touch as though it were a blow, and the movement showed her that his face was streaked with tears.

Determined now that he had to be woken, Káta took Loki firmly by the shoulders, patting at them. “Loki! Loki, wake up!” she whispered, “It’s not real. What you’re seeing is _not_ real! I’m real, I’m here – it’s Káta. Please, come back to me.”

A terrified moan escaped his lips, and then a child’s voice came from him. “Please, don’t. Please, please! Please, Father! _No!_ ” there was a shrill kind of shriek that made Káta flinch as it tore at her heart, tears coming to her eyes, and she cradled Loki in her arms, rocking him back and forth as she made soothing noises through her own sobs.

“You’re not there anymore, Loki. That’s over now, it’s all over,” she whispered, knowing as she said it that there were events in Loki’s past that were not over, that might never be over. “You’re safe now. You’re with me.” She held him closer to her, wrapping her arms tightly about him, and after a few long moments the sounds slowly stopped, and his body relaxed.

Káta released her hold, pulling back, and found herself face to face with Loki. His eyes were wide, the remaining shadows of his fear still in his eyes, and his brow was covered in sweat. “Kata,” he breathed, his eyes flickering between hers, a hand coming up to touch her face as though he couldn’t quite believe that she wasn’t a figment of his imagination.

She nodded, stroking back the sweat-slicked strands of hair from his eyes, and running a hand gently down his face. “I’m here.”

“I...” Loki paused, his mouth open for a long time, trying to think of something to say, but unable to choose what he wished to speak of from the whirlwind of unspoken things. “Good night.” And then he was gone.

 

*

 

“I want to teach you how to fight.”

Káta looked up from the stitch she was pulling through the tapestry. Loki was standing in the arch of her window, his expression serious and somewhat forbidding with his firmness. She had hoped rather than expected him to come back down that day, and was pleasantly surprised, for all the embarrassment of last night.

She glanced down at the tapestry for a moment, and then set it aside. It was close to being finished. “When do we start?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JUST MADE THE DEADLINE! Phew!  
> So, I'll be honest with you, I haven't actually worked on Loki for about two months now (having a glut of already written chapters can do that to you). For the first month I was taking a break, and then at the beginning of this month, it started to turn into laziness, and then when I decided to stop being lazy and go back to writing, I got sick and couldn't think enough to write, so I watched the entirety of Starz's "Outlander" (which is an AMAZING show, please watch it), and then I got a whole load of inspiration for my own Scottish story, and have spent the rest of the month working on that, and putting off posting this chapter because I didn't want to derail my thoughts from working on that story with thinking about Loki, and writing my comments here. Big sentence.  
> So yes, my comments probably won't be massively insightful, but I'll come back later and make them a bit better :)
> 
> Now, after all the excitement of the previous chapters, yes it is slowing down a little (in terms of action), but it's starting at the bottom of the hill up to the next climax, so we're ascending at least :)  
> Regardless, Loki and Káta being cute together can never be boring X3 (or so I hope). And then the nightmares, and dealing with them. UGH. ODIN DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH DAMAGE YOU'VE DONE YOU COMPLETE AND UTTER TWERPING BERK?!?!!?  
> More on that in the next chapter.
> 
>  
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it :D
> 
> Please give Kudos and/or comment :) Tell me what you like or don’t like :) Questions and speculations are always welcome :D As is incomprehensible flailing if that's what you go in for :)  
> Also, if you like this story, or any of my other ones, and you want access to sneak previews on chapters that I'm working on, you can Like my Facebook page, and Follow my Twitter or Tumblr :)  
> https://www.facebook.com/josephinetomkinsauthor  
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	46. Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Loki continues to struggle with his past, he has to decide whether or not to let Káta help him - a decision that runs against the grain of all he has been taught that makes a God.

Káta picked up things far more quickly than Loki had expected, for she had naturally fast reflexes, and a good memory for patterns. It was a welcome distraction from his embarrassment about the previous night however, and it was easy to lose himself in the physical exertion, and shelve all thoughts about the matter.

Loki could tell that Káta was enjoying the work, even though she tired more quickly than him, and sometimes made mistakes. For her part, Káta was discovering just how patient a teacher Loki could be. He was firm, but explained the reasoning behind everything he did, and was constantly watching her for any sign of discomfort or pain. He taught her moves better suited to her size and strength, many of which capitalised on the opponent’s greater weight, turning it into a tool and a weapon, rather than a threat. Loki knew however that knowing how to execute the moves in a safe combat ground was a very different thing to being in a situation where a single wrong move could mean your life, and stressed the point to her.

“Just because you know this, doesn’t mean it’s always best to tackle an opponent. You need to gauge what they want from you, how far they are willing to go to achieve it, and whether they are more skilled than you. All of that will help you decide whether to fight or run.”

Káta nodded seriously, unable to help but swing her arms with a little nervousness.

Loki noticed, and smiled. “It’s nothing to worry about ever, if I have my way. With any luck this will just become a pastime.”

Káta nodded, taking in a steadying breath. “How long until I can fight?”

Loki tilted his head from side to side. “At this rate, you’ll have memorised what you need to know in maybe a month – I’m just teaching you enough of the basics to actually escape; there will always be more to learn. Then you’ll need to practice. Just going over and over the moves until you don’t need to think. When we can put you in a mock fight and everything happens automatically – you’ll be ready; there’s no real time scale I can apply. You want to be able to know it so well that you have sufficient confidence in your ability that you can control your fear. And if fear does take hold, you have to know the moves well enough that they will happen automatically, it has to be able to override the paralysis of your fear when triggered – you have to trust in your muscle memory, and the only way you can achieve that is by drilling.”

Káta nodded seriously. She remembered the paralytic nature of her own terror, and the fact that her very stillness had only served to contribute further to her already mounting fear. The memory of it stirred a phantom vestige of recollected sensation, and turned her stomach.

Loki noticed, and put a hand on her shoulder, recalling her to their location. He turned her, drawing her into his arms and holding her close. “It will never happen again, I promise you,” he murmured into her hair as she clutched his back with fingers suddenly tight with desperation. “I won’t ever let it happen.”

She couldn’t hold him close enough all of a sudden, and her arms wrapped as far around his back as they could go, pressing him tightly to her as though to press him right into her chest to envelop her rapidly beating heart. She wanted to be completely surrounded by him, wrapped and enclosed by his warmth and love. His love was her protection now; her unbreakable shield.

Káta took in a deep breath through Loki’s chest, inhaling his scent and taking strength from it and him. Together, they were indestructible.

 

Knowing Káta’s canniness, Loki kept away for a few nights. He did not know how much she had gathered from his nightmare, whether he had spoken in his fear, for they had not discussed the incident. The nightmare was a reoccurring one from his childhood, and although he could sometimes overcome it, it still bettered him more often than not.

He could not be satisfied with his absences, however, for it increased his anxieties, and without Káta as the last thing he saw before he fell asleep, his nightmares, old and new, returned with a renewed vigour. Dissatisfied with being apart, he returned.

Fear overtook him when he arrived, for the room was dark, the familiar and reassuring golden ripples of light that he looked for on his coming as indication of Káta’s presence absent. Before he had time to panic and look for sign of a struggle or attack, or even to feel for where she might be, there was a rustle of fabric from behind him, and his own shadow was suddenly cast across the floor.

He whipped around to find Káta standing before him, having risen from her seat by her desk and unwrapped the blanket she had used to conceal her luminance.

“Káta, what are you doing?” he hissed, his heart still hammering with now fading anxiety.

“I was about to ask you the same question,” Káta countered seriously.

Loki frowned.

“Why have you never told me?” she asked gently.

“About what?” he bluffed.

Káta raised an eyebrow. “Really, Loki?”

He sighed, unwilling to meet her eyes, but unable to wholly ignore them. “I…there’s never been a good time.”

Káta’s eyebrows remained raised. “Are you sure?”

Loki pursed his lips, unwilling to answer.

“How long?”

Loki shuffled his feet, and coughed, staring at his boots. “I used to check on you at night ever since I first came to you as the bird,” he muttered. “It made it easier for me to sleep.” He took in a deep breath, his eyes still fixed on his feet. “And then after Spana attacked you, I started staying here through the night – until I made the bracelet for you.”

Káta gazed at Loki, smiling and astonished. It explained so much. “You’ll ruin your back sleeping like that.”

Loki’s head shot up at the unexpected reply, meeting Káta’s smile with wide eyes. “It’s uh…it’s not so bad…once you’re used to it,” he replied, almost unable to believe her. She wasn’t surprised, wasn’t upset, wasn’t anything negative at all. She was just herself. Smiling at him like he’d done something beautiful for her.

Káta rewrapped the blanket around herself in a business-like fashion. “Well, if you’re going to stay awake all night, then either I’m going to stay awake all night with you on my clothes chest, or you are going to stay awake all night with me sitting on the bed.”

Loki frowned, his astonishment evaporating in the face of her declaration. “You’re not staying up all night; _you_ are going to sleep,” he said firmly.

Káta frowned back, crossing her arms. “Not if you aren’t.” She strode past him, and sat down very deliberately on her bed, giving him a pointed glance.

Loki rolled his eyes, and sighed, giving Káta’s single pallet a disparaging glance. “There’s no way we’re going to fit comfortably on that all night, it’s too small – and your room isn’t that safe in any case.”

“Well? I can’t change any of that.”

Loki gazed shrewdly at Káta, then reached out, grabbing her hand.

 

The next moment, they were both in his chambers.

“It’s safer here. Now go to sleep.” Loki shooed Káta in the direction of the bed with a stern look.

Káta shrugged and scrambled into bed readily enough, rearranging the covers, and then peeped expectantly over them at him. Loki, however, crossed to a chair, and settled himself in it, leaning back and closing his eyes.

Káta frowned deeply once more, somehow managing to look disapproving, despite the fact that she was almost out of sight beneath the covers. She pushed herself up on her elbows and stared at him.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m going to sleep in this chair once you stop talking,” Loki replied, his eyes still shut.

Káta’s frown deepened even further, and she huffed aggravatedly. “Your bed is huge! And freezing besides; come over here or I’ll make you.”

Loki cracked his eyes open a sliver, then sat up properly once more, and gave Káta an implacable look, one eyebrow raised in amusement.

Káta’s eyes narrowed; she recognised the challenge. “Fine. I’ll come and sit on you then.”

She was in the act of pushing back the covers to do so when Loki reappeared on the bed beside her, pushing her back down under the covers. Káta grabbed onto the front of his tunic, pulling him back with her, and then frowned at him in a manner that very plainly said, “Don’t cross me.”

Loki returned the frown for a moment, then sighed, shaking his head slightly. “Fine,” he muttered, rolling over and pulling the covers over himself as his seiðr replaced his clothes with his sleeping ones. “You really are impossible, you know that?”

Káta snorted. “That makes two of us then.”

Unseen, Loki rolled his eyes, and tutted a little. “Now sleep.”

“Very well bossy boots,” Káta murmured sleepily. She snuggled into his back, and he could feel her shivers – she hadn’t been lying about the cold.

Still a little cross, Loki semi-grudgingly rolled back over, turning to let her curl up against his side and under his arm.

He had seen Káta sleep enough times to know when she was asleep, and the arrangement seemed to suit her very well, for in less time than it took him to beat Thor in a game of wits, she was fast asleep against his shoulder.

Still a little awkward, Loki glanced down at her, and couldn’t help but feel happy. He hesitated a moment, then leant down, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. “Good night.”

 

Káta was awoken by a violent shaking.

She sat up, catapulted into consciousness, and turned to see Loki in the bed beside her, constricted with terror.

His back was arched, his teeth clenched as he strained against invisible bonds, every muscle and vein standing out in stark relief. He was panting roughly through his nose, and every now and then he flinched as though a blow had landed upon him.

Káta held his face in her hands, trying to gentle him, to in some way relax the strain he was putting his body under, but he remained rigid. “Loki, it’s OK – you’re not there. You’re here with me; with Káta. You’re safe. Please, please wake up.”

He continued to shake however; apparently unable to hear her words or feel her touch so deeply was he embedded in his nightmare.

Káta was scared now, the realisation that she might not be able to wake Loki this time, that she might not be able to bring him respite from his demons dawning on her with unpleasant alacrity. She sat up properly, taking one of his hands where it clenched the bed clothes into a fist, and holding it with her own, hoping that he might relax his grip. “Come on, Loki, listen to my voice; come back to me. Come back here – that’s over now. It’s over. I won’t let it happen. I won’t let it happen ever again. I promise. I’ll be here. I’ll always be here. You just need to wake up.”

A constricted howl managed to make is way between Loki’s teeth, and then he was panting again, whimpering on his outgoing breaths, and turned on his side, shuddering and shaking with mortal fear as tears left his closed eyes, and sweat covered his skin.

Tears of her own coming to her eyes, Káta brought Loki into the circle of her arms, cradling him, hushing his whimpers and stroking the hair from his face, and rubbing his back soothingly, whispering over and over again that he was going to be all right, patting the cold sweat from his face, and gently wiping the tears from his cheeks.

She lay like that in a curved s-bend as time slowly passed. The hours dripped by, and the only sound in the room was her voice and the stifled sounds of Loki’s fear.

Káta had no idea what it was that had gripped Loki so. She did not know whether it was imagined or relived fear, but every moment of its torture that he endured stabbed at her heart.

By the time dawn had begun to lighten the edges of the clouds, turning them from black to smoky grey, he had at last begun to quieten. By the time the clouds were dove grey touched with lilac, he was silent and still.

 

They had a late morning meal sitting on the bed.

Káta picked at her roll until the crumbs started falling onto the covers, and then stopped, moving onto an apple and unenthusiastically twisting it this way and that, watching as it spun while she held the stalk.

“What’s wrong?”

Káta dropped the apple in surprise, glancing up.

Loki had been watching her closely as he ate, and her behaviour was making him anxious. He peered into her face, noting the blue smudges under her red eyes. “You didn’t sleep well.” His face fell. He had hoped that she might have slept better in his rooms; he had liked it, had hoped… But clearly he was wrong. He dropped his head back to his food. “I’ll take you back to your room tonight.”

“No!” Káta put her hand out quickly, the urgency that had suddenly flooded her expression halting all the embarrassed and unhappy thoughts that had been running through Loki’s mind. Her voice softened, “No. I,” Káta’s eyes fell back to the apple, and she spun it again, watching it twirl. “You had a nightmare last night,” she whispered.

Loki stilled.

“Please let me stay.” Her hand fell upon his arm, and the unexpectedness of the gesture made him look up into her eyes, which met his, earnest and forthcoming all of a sudden. “Please. I couldn’t wake you, but I can’t bear the idea of you having to go through that all alone. You might have had to once, but not anymore. I don’t care if I lose sleep because of it, I don’t care if you don’t know that I’m really there with you. You’ve helped me when I needed it – you saved me. I want to help you…I want to save you too.”

Loki gazed at her for a long moment, astonished by the sudden outpouring. “I…it’s not.” The words stuck in his throat, restrained by all that he had been told he had to be. Slowly, Loki managed to let them out. “I’m a God, Káta…we’re not – _I’m_ not supposed to…” he shifted out of her reach, her hand sliding from his arm, and stared down at his knotted hands, his eyes screwed up. “It’s weak to be as I am…to have fears…to let them prey on me. It’s not _godly_.”

“Who says so?” Káta demanded. “There is no one way to be a God, just as there is no one way to build a house, or draw a horse. No one can tell you how you’re supposed to be you. And no one is infallible, Loki. Not even Gods. Do you honestly believe that none of the other gods in Valhalla have fears? If you don’t fear something then you’re either a fool or you don’t value anything enough to be scared of losing it. Fear of losing something makes us hold on tighter – makes us treasure it more because we know that one day it has to end. Knowing that doesn’t make you weak; and nor does feeling or showing it. It means you’re stronger, because even though you know you’re scared, you still do what needs to be done anyway. That’s courage; not weakness.” She paused as Loki stared up at her, his eyes wide with an expression that made her heart leap a little.

Then his eyes dropped from hers once more, and she took a deep breath.

“We all need help sometimes – we all need someone to lean on. Admitting that takes strength. You don’t always have to be alone. There’s no point in trying to carry a burden by yourself when you have someone to share it with.” She slowly reached out to take his hand where it rested on the covers between them. “I know that I need you… Will you let yourself need me?”

 

Then his eyes dropped from hers once more, and she took a deep breath.

“We all need help sometimes – we all need someone to lean on. There’s no point in trying to carry a burden alone when you have someone to share it with.” She slowly reached out to take his hand where it rested on the covers between them. “I know that I need you… Will you let yourself need me?”

Loki met her eyes, his own filled with trepidation, slowly interlacing his fingers with hers, and tightening his grip. He swallowed, then nodded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Down to the wire again! >


	47. Safeguarding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Loki and Káta attempt to protect one another from their fears, Loki comes to the realisation that there is only one thing to do.

After that Loki came down to Mærsalr each night to bring Káta back to his Halls. By and large their nights became easier, for knowing that they were in one another’s presence, even in sleep, was a great aid to the peace of their slumber. It was not infallible, however, and there were still times when one or other of them awoke in the middle of the night, sweating with fear, most often to discover themselves in the arms of the other, comforting hands stroking their back, and reassuring eyes meeting their gaze.

Káta was generally quite easy to wake, for her terrors had not been compounded over a lifetime, and bringing her out of them and back into his arms was a relatively simple task for Loki. The sight of her eyes flying into wakefulness still glazed with fear never grew easier for him to stomach however, and with every passing day his desire to hunt down the person or persons responsible for her terror grew. He would lie there with her clutching him as she drew half-sobbing breaths of relief from her place in his arms, anger distilling in his heart. The longer the matter went disregarded and without investigation, however, the harder it would be for him to find the culprits. But Káta needed him with her more than she needed him to find out about her attackers, and so he shelved his need for vengeance until such a time as it could be fulfilled.

It did not take long before Káta discovered the truth of how Loki had spent his nights for most of his life. His nightmares took many forms, his reactions ranging from constriction, to thrashing, to childlike terror, and the only reason he ever fell asleep was due to the fact of her presence. Most of the time she could bring him out of them, but there were some few reoccurring nightmares that no amount of soothing on her part could wrench him out of, and on such nights she got little rest.

If she could wake him, they would talk about what had passed if Loki felt able to, and if not, Káta was content to stay awake with Loki for as long as required, very often until dawn. He had protested against this, determined that she should go to sleep, but short of using seiðr on her, it was not something he could force her not to do, and they eventually fell into the habit of napping curled up together during the day after such vigils. With each new tale Káta’s heart wept a little more for Loki, however, for few of his fears were imagined or distorted by his mind. She had tried counting how many forms the nightmares took, but gave up as the numbers grew to terrifying heights, little reassured by Loki’s assurances that he used to have many more than that, and that since meeting her, he had actually had more undisturbed sleep than he had had for decades, even when he had been sleeping on her clothes chest.

Well aware of how sensitive the subject was for him, Káta did not push Loki to talk about his fears, although she did her best to untangle and allay them when he was forthcoming. She could tell that he was endeavouring to tell her about them, fighting against years of ingrained conditioning, and his relief was obvious when he did manage to speak about them, but she could not help him with everything, and her methods were by no means a panacea.

On the nights that he spoke during his terrors, she learnt some saddening truths about his relationship with his father. She could not always be sure whether the fears were memories, or fantasies of exacerbated truths at such times, but regardless Káta knew that beneath the hero-worship Loki had held for his father, there were vast immensities of fears pertaining to retribution, and his inability to match Odin’s exacting standards. These things she never spoke to Loki about, well aware that it could trigger a relapse, but on those nights the Loki she knew fled and was replaced with a damaged and crying individual, unaware of her arms around him as she rocked him, tears on her face for his suffering.

During the day Káta strove to think of new ways to help lessen the impact of Loki’s nightmares. Talking as they faced each other in bed before sleep, sometimes already half asleep, other times laughing fit to break a rib, other times talking quietly and earnestly deep into the night, seemed to be the best way to stave off both of their fears, filling themselves up with the sight and sound of the other until they were fairly drunk on the mere idea of each other. On such nights Káta drifted into easy slumber, and remained there until well past dawn, and even Loki found that undisturbed sleep welcomed him with open arms. What was more, waking to see Káta curled up and asleep in his arms was a greater reward than any other. Achieving her peacefulness was all he wanted. It settled his heart, filling him to bursting point with waves of contentment that blocked out his demons more effectively than anything else.

On nights when the terrors gripped Loki, however, Kata had discovered that singing either the song she had written for him, or a particular lullaby – _Dreyma Fróðleikr Barn_ – tended to ease his nightmares when she couldn’t wake him. She assumed that his mother had sung it to him as an infant, for it was extraordinarily effective, soothing his constricted expression, and lulling him into happier dreams a lot faster than anything else she did.

She wanted to ask Thor or even Frigg about Loki’s nightmares, curious to discover what they knew of them, desperate to improve her methods. But Káta had little belief that Thor would even be aware of his brother’s night time struggles, and it was merely a faint hope that she might ever be able to meet the Queen, let alone speak with her frankly about her younger son.

As it was, Loki and Káta shut themselves in Hugrsannidr most of the day, occasionally venturing out to empty sparring fields, or little known and deserted gardens, but rarely leaving one another’s side. They both felt safest when in each other’s undivided company, and at present distractions were unwelcome from the task of tending to themselves and to one another. Though the thought never occurred to either of them the distinction between who was guarding whom had blurred, and there was only the combination of them both to think of.

 

Immersed as they were in each other neither Loki nor Káta were aware that the bodies had been discovered in the forest where Loki had left them.

The sight of a dark pillar of crows and other carrion birds above the forest had eventually resulted in the discovery of the massacre, and word soon made its way back to Asgard. Little was to be deduced from the remains, other than that they had been dedicatedly butchered by a person or persons with mercifully sharp weapons.

Their deaths caused little stir beyond being good fodder for gossip, however, and within a week the actual news had been all but forgotten, and instead stories to pleasantly raise the hairs on the back of one’s neck over a tankard of mead by a roaring fire were circulating. The most popular version of events was that some of the naír had made their way out of Hel and were haunting the forests of the mountain slopes, now joined by the uneasy souls of those men.

Children listened with attentive ears to the conversations of adults in an attempt to discover more of the gory details, but were quickly swatted away when discovered by their mothers, only to hear the tales later as a means to get them stay in bed. Then they were accompanied with warnings that the naír might have come into the city without being noticed, taking shelter beneath their beds for the night, and that they ought to stay beneath the covers if they wanted to wake up still in possession of all their toes. Their mothers embroidered the tales so much so that more than one child woke up the next morning in desperate need of the privy, not having dared to slip out of bed in the night to relieve themselves for fear of what the souls of the dishonourable dead supposedly lurking in the shadows of their rooms might do to an unlucky toilet goer.

As none of the men were of great consequence to anyone in particular however, except perhaps to the occasional barman with an unpaid bill, not much fuss was made over the discovery, the cause generally put down to the fact that bands of such individuals often argued and fought, and that in this instance, they had fought until they killed each other.

The news was of even less significance to the higher ranking Asgardians, and almost negligible to the Æsir, but had it reached Spana’s ears she might have considered it of greater importance than any who had heard it before her. She was happily occupied with attending to Thor, however, who, having discovered the nymphs of Mærsalr to be to his liking, had begun to frequent the place with satisfying regularity.

His presence, and Káta’s absences for the majority of the day, were enough to drive all thoughts of her plot from Spana’s mind, and satisfied with having snared the elder brother, much of her ire towards Káta had been drained. If the girl was satisfied with the runt of the princely litter, so be it; she was more than happy not to have to deal with Loki’s continued presence when she had Thor’s attentions to handle and provoke. She had even discovered a means of covering her scars with a low hanging shawl draped between her arms, and Thor seemed indifferent to the welts in any case.

With Thor now a regular visitor to Mærsalr, however, it was inevitable that he and Loki crossed paths at times. Such moments served to be exceedingly awkward for both parties, but Thor sometimes joined Loki and Káta on walks around the gardens, whichever nymph or nymphs he was accompanied by dismissed immediately, and not without miffed irritation on their part.

Thor had noticed the change in his brother’s behaviour towards Káta. When before he had been attentive and protective, now he was entirely absorbed in her; impatient when he looked away from her, and agitated if he moved further than three paces from her side. Káta too seemed shaken, for she was not as merry as she had been whenever they had met previously, but withdrawn and almost as anxious as Loki when they were parted.

Káta did her best to put on a good pretence of being fine for Thor and Rúna’s sakes, but Loki had neither the patience nor the time to bother with such scruples. The rest of the Nine Worlds and all their opinions could be damned as far as he was concerned. Káta, however, was sensible of preventing concerned queries from arising, but even she was not actress enough to deceive those closest to her and Loki.

Rúna had already asked her more than once whether she was quite all right, for she had noticed Káta’s absences from all meals, and when they did see one another her face was often drawn, and dark smudges blacked her eyes. Had Káta been as animated as usual, Rúna would have thought nothing of her absences; would have assumed that she was spending more time than before with the young Prince, and gently teased her accordingly with hopes of enticing salacious details out of her friend. But she could tell that Káta was out of sorts, and could not help but feel deeply concerned for her. She and Loki were not getting up to the sorts of mischief that most gods and nymphs did when they absented themselves from Mærsalr, and they weren’t getting up to the sorts of mischief that were to be expected of the Trickster God. Something had happened to them, and Rúna feared what it would have had to have been in order to disturb Káta so.

She was well used to Káta’s intense privacy about certain matters – she had always been the sort to keep her secrets close, and rarely divulged more information than was absolutely necessary – but Rúna knew that Káta was keeping something secret that she ought to share for her own good, and wondered over the matter. When she did see Káta, she was always in the company of Loki, most often arm in arm as they walked the gardens, and she seemed to lean on him as an invalid with a wounded leg leant on their walking stick. Their heads were always bowed in towards each other, and attentive murmurs passed between them, quiet and earnest, and somehow solemn – an astonishing transformation from the light-hearted impudence that had gone before.

Each time Rúna addressed the matter with her friend, however, Káta brushed her off with assurances that she was perfectly fine, just a little ill and experiencing disturbed nights as a result, but that she was sure it would pass soon enough. For all her friend’s efforts, however, Rúna refused to be so easily dissuaded.

“Are you _sure_ you’re fine?” Rúna caught Káta’s arm as they passed each other in the corridor beyond Káta’s room. Káta had attempted to slip past her friend with a quick smile, but Rúna was canny, and had surprisingly fast reflexes.

Káta sighed, and summoned a wan smile for her friend. “Yes. Perfectly. Please, believe me, Rúna.”

Rúna frowned. “The thing is; I don’t. I want to, believe me I do, but look at you.” Rúna swept her friend up and down, taking in her limp hair, the pallor of her skin, and the shadows beneath her dull eyes. Even the very way she held herself was different – cowed and defensive rather than upright and confident.

Káta shook her head, taking Rúna’s hands in hers and squeezing them reassuringly. “I know I don’t look my best at the moment, I know I’m not myself, but this is something I need to deal with alone. I appreciate your concern, truly I do, but the best you can do for me at the moment is just to understand that I need time to sort this out.”

“Not entirely alone, though,” Rúna smiled faintly.

Káta’s brows shot up, but returned Rúna’s smile with a tiny one of her own. “That’s true.”

“You’re lucky you know.”

Káta raised a questioning eyebrow.

“To have him.” Rúna added. “He’s not what people say he is – although I think maybe you were the only person to see that. But I can see that he cares for you, and for that I am glad.”

Káta chuckled lightly. “Yes…I am lucky. He does care…deeply. Probably more than he should.”

Rúna smiled. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that. No one should take that kind of solicitude lightly.” Káta blushed, and Rúna laughed. “I suppose he’ll be getting impatient that I’m distracting you, wherever he is. Not far, I don’t doubt.”

Káta laughed a genuine full laugh at that. “Yes, he most certainly will be. Patience isn’t always his strong suit.” She grinned.

Rúna chuckled. “Well, I’d better not keep you then.” She pulled Káta into a tight hug, seized by a sudden trepidation and unwilling to let go. “Do get better soon, whatever it is.”

Káta sighed, drawn between melancholia and brightness. “I’ll try.”

 

Downstairs Káta was swiftly joined by Loki, who had been hovering around the gardens, distracted and anxious.

“What took you so long?” he asked the moment she was within earshot, his hands coming to rest on her shoulders as he peered into her eyes concernedly.

Káta shook her head with a tired smile, placing a reassuring hand on his arm. “It’s nothing. I just met Rúna, that’s all.”

Loki gave her a penetrating look. “She asked you again, didn’t she?”

Káta sighed heavily. “Yes. But she means well.”

Loki frowned, carefully interlacing his fingers with hers. “Even well-meaning intentions can do more damage than good,” he replied crossly as they began to walk off into the grounds.

“Loki,” Káta reproached, “she’s my friend – it’s normal for her to be concerned. It’s touching.” She drew a deep breath, repressing a shudder as a flash of the experience crossed her closed eyelids.

Loki tightened his grip on her hand. “It reminds you – it’s not helpful.”

Káta squeezed his hand back. “It’s nothing – besides, we talked, and she understands that I just need space for the moment.”

“Hm.”

Káta shook her head and smiled to herself at Loki’s cantankerous attentiveness.

“Loki! Káta!”

The pair’s heads shot up at the shout, and found Thor striding across the green towards them, his arms open.

“Thor,” Káta smiled with genuine warmth at the Thunder God. There was something catching about his geniality.

He descended upon them, sweeping the pair of them up into his arms, as had become his habit ever since Loki had refused to release Káta’s hand the first time they had met each other after the incident. Loki was not particularly partial to the ritual, but it never failed to make Káta laugh.

“Brother,” Loki replied severely once they were standing once more.

“Do not frown so, bróðir,” Thor reproved, “it makes you look even more tired than you already appear!”

Loki and Káta exchanged a glance, and deep inside both found a little more of their weariness compound. Thor’s concerned enquiries could be a little harder to shake than Rúna’s at times, and at that moment Káta did not really feel quite up to repelling any excessive insistence on his part.

“You know you two really are looking quite ill,” Thor commented, gazing into the faces of the two, his heavy brows creased with a concerned frown of his own.

“All the subtlety of a war hammer, as usual, brother,” Loki muttered dryly.

Thor laughed. “Don’t expect such things of me, and you won’t be disappointed, brother.”

“Indeed? I shall do my best to remember that.” Loki grinned slightly, and Káta smiled.

Thor was not to be dissuaded by banter, however. “You ought to eat better, you’re both looking peaky. You especially, Káta. Loki’s always been a bit pale, but you’ve lost some of your glow. I hope you are taking good care of her, brother?” Thor turned a reproving gaze upon Loki, whose brow rumpled at the irony.

Their eyes had darted to meet at Thor’s unusually accurate observation, anxiety sparking between them for a moment. They had both noticed that some of Káta’s usual glow had faded somewhat, although they had never discussed the matter, and it remained a concern for them both.

“Well, you know how it is,” Káta replied lightly. “Sometimes you just go off your food.”

Thor gazed at her blankly.

Loki leant closer to Káta. “The day Thor goes off his food something would have to be seriously wrong,” he chuckled.

Thor guffawed. “Indeed it would! The very idea of it!” he shook his head as though merely thinking about going off his food had given him a cold shiver.

Káta laughed. “Well in that respect I suppose we are a little different.”

Thor patted Káta reassuringly on her shoulder. “Don’t you worry, Káta – you get a few good square meals in you, maybe the odd dram of mead, and you’ll be as fine as the most hale and hearty of Asgard’s warriors.”

Káta smiled weakly. “I’m sure I will.” She gave Loki a faintly entreating glance, and he smiled slightly, understanding her silent request.

“Thor, we have engagements to keep.”

“Oh, of course; of course. I’ll not detain you further, and remember – eat those meals, Káta. Brother, see that she does.”

Káta nodded, smiling a little as Loki shepherded her away from Thor, then took his hand. “Take me somewhere we can be alone,” she murmured. “Please.”

Loki squeezed her hand reassuringly. “I know just the place.”

 

A moment later they were atop the ruins in the grounds. The sun was out and had drenched the stones for most of the morning so that they were deliciously warm to sit on. The butterflies seemed to be enjoying the warmth as much as they were, for they fluttered in velveteen spirals of vivid colour, apparently without any particular destination in mind.

Káta sighed, leaning against Loki’s shoulder. She appreciated Thor and Rúna’s solicitousness, but at present it was a painful reminder of evils that she would rather not have brought up. Of course they could not know what it was that they were doing to her and Loki, and their concern was a cause for gratitude that they had such attentive and caring friends, but at present it was unbearable and a burden.

Loki nodded. “I know.” He drew Káta into a hug. He had felt the oppression of his brother’s kindness as well, and even Fróði and Berghildr had been unable to retrain themselves from asking after them when they had visited the library earlier in the week.

Káta smiled wanly, closing her eyes, and listening to his heart beat.

 

As Káta slept in his arms that night Loki lay awake a little while longer, ruminating over their situation. Remaining in Asgard was their safest option, especially if they confined themselves to Valhalla, but it was not the best. He could feel himself stretching, on edge, each time they left his Halls, not merely out of concern for potential dangers, but from the worry of being accosted by well-meaning friends or family with enquiries about their health. He could feel the tenseness in Káta as well, her back rigid whenever he laid a hand on it, her muscles hard in her arms, and he knew in his heart of hearts that neither of them could continue for long in such a manner. It was not conducive for either of them.

Striking a balance between Káta’s safety and her happiness was difficult however, and there were few places that they could go which would achieve both, and fewer people whom he might trust enough to bring Káta to. A vague notion of returning to Iðunn’s orchards flitted across Loki’s mind, but he discarded it almost instantaneously. The forest and dryads guarded Iðunn’s apples well, but Loki was not yet ready to place his faith in the strength of the trees to protect Káta from the corporeal threat of killers, for he had not forgotten the limitations of the forest’s reach. Concerns that a second lot of mercenaries might come for her had stalked his mind by day and night, so that each person who passed them, each sudden movement, or flicker in the shadows set him on edge anew, ready to whisk Káta away.

There were few persons whom he could call friends, despite the fact that almost the entirety of the Æsir population owed him favours of some denomination or other, but he would not entrust Káta to a single member of the Æsir. Asgard was a city of alliances, and at times intrigue, and involving Káta any further than was absolutely necessary in the mores of interwoven pacts, agreements, and lies that tied together the Æsir was something he would go to great lengths to prevent. Quarrels and feuds between the Æsir were common, at times spanning decades, and alliances and changing allies were not always easy to predict.

Flight from the city and into one of the other worlds seemed their only sensible option, but with nowhere safe to go it was as foolhardy as walking unarmoured into a fighting pit. Loki cursed internally, wracking his brains for a solution, until one struck him like a cuff around the ears. Vanaheimr. But not to her mother’s orchards.

Carefully extracting himself from around Káta, who let out a sleepy groan of dissent, he slipped out of bed and crossed to his desk, pulling out a clean sheet of paper and beginning to fill it with feverish speed.

The Æsir he couldn’t trust, and Iðunn’s orchards were not safe enough, despite the evident prowess of the forest and the dryads, but perhaps there were two Vanir in which they both held confidence whose hospitality they could rely on.

 

Loki waited for a reply with great impatience over the coming days. He knew he could rely on Brosa to reply swiftly, for it was not in the nature of the Vanir to keep their correspondents waiting, but even so time dragged at him with fingers made of cold syrup.

He had no desire to broach the topic with Káta until he knew for certain whether they would be welcome or not, as he had did not wish to raise her hopes or cause a disagreement before he was in possession of the full facts. Even so, the letter was more of a courtesy than anything else, as the very notion of any member of the Vanir turning away a guest from the hospitality of their home and hearth was unthinkable. They would sooner welcome their enemy to share in their table and rest beneath the shelter of their roof, than turn them away on the doorstep. Cordiality and respect were their lifeblood, and an inhospitable host was a person that no one would sully themselves with the acquaintance of.

 

A reply arrived barely three days after Loki had dispatched his letter, the contents all he had hoped for.

Loki took his proposition to Káta with some small nervousness, unsure whether she would take to it or not, and so merely proffered her the letter.

Bemused, Káta gazed into his eyes in question before she unfolded the paper, and scanned the contents.

Brosa was as genial by hand as he was in person.

 

_My dear Finnr,_

_Do not hesitate to bring your good self and dear friend Káta to visit Eðla and I. We would be honoured to receive you as our guests for as long a time as it suits you. Our grounds are extensive, and our home spacious and comfortable, and I am sure that we shall be able to find you plenty of amusements to fill your time with, should you so wish. Our household happens to be home to some of the finest seiðmadr and seiðkona in Vanaheimr at present, and I know Finnr that you would not wish to pass up on an opportunity to meet and talk with them._

_Eðla and I only wish that your stay with us will be able to help relieve whatever troubles that you are experiencing, and you may rely on us, our household, and guests not to question you on the matter. We understand that there are times when things cannot be shared due to the pain they inflict, and discretion is our watchword. The nature of such matters is hard, but if we can provide you with any succour or relief from it, we shall be happy to do so._

_Come when it best conveniences you, we look forward to your arrival._

_May the Norns bless and speed your journey to us,_

_Brosa and Eðla_

 

Káta set the page down, and stared at Loki.

“Would you…would you like to go?” Loki asked tentatively.

Káta’s pensive face broke into a smile, and she nodded. Then she fell into Loki’s arms. “Yes, I would very much like to go. Very much indeed.”

Loki smiled in relief, sighing and holding her close. “I’ll make the arrangements today.”

Káta laughed as looked up at him. “There are times when I think I might need to teach you greater patience…but in this matter I wholeheartedly support your haste.”

Loki’s smile widened. “I rather thought you would, so I’d arranged all that I already could.”

Káta smirked. “Know me that well, do you?”

Loki laughed. “I rather think I might, yes. Just a bit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I currently have the most appalling head cold, so do forgive any lack of cogency in my remarks - my head is currently a drunken merry go round held in a G clamp, so coherent thought is rather difficult.
> 
> What I really wanted to get at with this chapter is that it's not just a question of Loki really needing Káta to help him - it's never been that one sided - Káta needs Loki too, and the attack has just helped to demonstrate that.  
> Also, *SCREAMS* they are finally snuggling together! :D It has been such a looong time.
> 
> And just to clarify regarding Loki's nightmares. He used to actively avoid sleeping as much as possible because when he did sleep, he'd be assailed nearly constantly by the most appalling nightmares. After meeting Káta he sleeps more often, but the nightmares are less frequent. They remain an often enough occurrence to be a real problem, however. 
> 
> Oh yeah, and the lullaby that Káta sings to him - Dreyma Fróðleikr Barn – translates as "Dream Magic, Child". Frigg chose to sing it to baby Loki for the double meaning of the song: to dream magical lovely dreams, and also to dream of the magic she would teach him.  
> And "bróðir" just means "brother".
> 
>  
> 
> I hope you enjoyed it :D
> 
> Please give Kudos and/or comment :) Tell me what you like or don’t like :) Questions and speculations are always welcome :D As is incomprehensible flailing if that's what you go in for :)  
> Also, if you like this story, or any of my other ones, and you want access to sneak previews on chapters that I'm working on, you can Like my Facebook page, and Follow my Twitter or Tumblr :)  
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